. -  ,  .     - > 


IN 

Frederick  Slate 
Professor  of  Physics 


THE  PRINCIPLES 
OF  SUCCESS  IN 
LITERATURE  .*  BY 
GEORGE  HENRY  LEWES 


Edited  by 

WM.  DALLAM  ARMES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
STUDENTS'  CO-OPERATIVE 
ASSOCIATION  &  *  #  J90J 


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The  feeble,  inefficient  writer,  knowing  his 
weakness  and  hoping  for  directions  that  will 
enable  him  successfully  to  conceal  it  from  the 
public,  will  find  little  in  this  work  to  satisfy 
or  encourage  him  ;  to  the  vigorous,  earnest 
beginner  in  literature,  conscious  of  power,  but 
in  doubt  how  best  to  secure  "  style,  "  it  will 
prove  an  invaluable  warning  against  the  nul- 
lifying effects  of  affectation,  imitation,  and 
insincerity. 

Originally  printed  in  1865,  in  Vols.  I  and 
II  of  The  Fortnightly  Review,  of  which  Mr. 
I,ewes  was  then  editor,  the  essay  was  first 
published  in  pamphlet  form  twenty  years  later 
by  Professor  A.  S.  Cook,  at  that  time  Pro- 
fessor of  the  English  Language  and  Litera- 
ture in  this  University  ;  and  has  since  been 
several  times  reprinted  as  a  college  text-book. 
As  it  is  hoped  that  the  present  edition,  while 
primarily  intended  for  students,  will  prove 
acceptable  to  the  general  reader,  the  somewhat 
repellent  appearance  of  a  text-book  has  been 
avoided,  and  the  work  of  the  editor  confined 
to  the  correction  of  the  errors  and  misprints  in 
the  quotations  in  the  original  publication. 


W.  D.  A. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA, 

,  JANUARY  14,  1901. 


984623 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  I. 

MEANING  AND  CONDITIONS  OF  SUCCESS  . .  7 

I.    The  Present  Position  of  Literature 7 

II.    Success  the  Criterion  of  Merit 12 

III.  The  Relation  Between  a  Writer  and  His 

Public 22 

IV.  The  Laws  Through  Which  Power  is  Efficient    27 

s 

CHAPTER  II. 
THE  PRINCIPLE  OF  VISION 33 

I.    Insight  the  Prime  Requisite  for  Success  ...     33 

II.    Vision  as   Necessary   in   Reasoning   as  in 

Poetry 41 

III.    The  Rank  of  Writers  Proportional  to  Their 

Insight 49 

CHAPTER  III. 
OF  VISION  IN  ART 62 

I.    The  Real  Nature  of  the  Imagination 62 

II.    Weakness    and    Strength    of   Imagination 

Illustrated 81 

III.  Distinctness  of  Vision  Always  Necessary ...     86 

IV.  The  Specific  Character  of  the  Imagination  .     93 


Contents. 

CHAPTER  IV. 
PRINCIPE  OF  SINCERITY  ................   103 


CHAPTER  V. 

THB  PRINCIPLE  o#  BEAUTY  ..................  134 

CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  LAWS  OF  STYI,E  ...........  ..............  162 

I.    The  Law  of  Economy  .........  ,  ...........  165 

.  II.    The  Law  of  Simplicity  ....................  172 

/  III.    The  Law  of  Sequence  ............     .......  187 

IV.    The  Law  of  Climax  .......................  205 

V.    The  Law  of  Variety  .......................  208 


THE   PRINCIPLES  OF  SUCCESS 

* 

IN  LITERATURE 


CHAPTER  I 

In  the  development  of  the  great  series  of 
animal  organisms,  the  Nervous  System  assumes 
more  and  more  of  an  imperial  character.  The 
rank  held  by  any  animal  is  determined  by  this 
character,  and  not  at  all  by  its  bulk,  its  strength, 
or  even  its  utility.  In  like  manner,  in  the  de- 
velopment of  the  social  organism,  as  the  life  of 
nations  becomes  more  complex,  Thought  as- 
sumes a  more  imperial  character;  and  Litera- 
ture, in  its  widest  sense,  becomes  a  delicate  in- 
dex of  social  evolution.  Barbarous  societies 
show  only  the  germs  of  literary  life.  But  ad- 
vancing civilisation,  bringing  with  it  increased 
conquest  over  material  agencies,  disengages  the 
mind  from  the  pressure  of  immediate  wants,  and 


8  Success  in  Literature. 

the  loosened  energy  finds  in  leisure  both  the  de- 
mand and  the  means  of  a  new  activity:  the 
demand,  because  long  unoccupied  hours  have  to 
be  rescued  from  the  weariness  of  inaction ;  the 
means,  because  this  call  upon  the  energies 
nourishes  a  greater  ambition  and  furnishes  a 
wider  arena. 

Lrjte,raturo  ls|  at  once  the  cause  and  the  effect 
of  social  progress.  It  deepens  our  natural  sensi- 
:t)iliitie8J  Jand  .strengthens  by  exercise  our  intel- 
lectual capacities.  It  stores  up  the  accumulated 
experience  of  the  race,  connecting  Past  and 
Present  into  a  conscious  unity;  and  with  this 
store  it  feels  successive  generations,  to  be  fed  in 
turn  by  them.  As  its  importance  emerges  into 
more  general  recognition,  it  necessarily  draws 
after  it  a  larger  crowd  of  servitors,  filling  noble 
minds  with  a  noble  ambition. 

There  is  no  need  in  our  day  to  be  dithyrambic 
on  the  glory  of  Literature.  Books  have  become 
our  dearest  companions,  yielding  exquisite  de- 
lights and  inspiring  lofty  aims.  They  are  our 
silent  instructors,  our  solace  in  sorrow,  our 
relief  in  weariness.  With  what  enjoyment  we 
linger  over  the  pages  of  some  well-loved  author ! 
With  what  gratitude  we  regard  every  honest 
book !  Friendships,  profound  and  generous,  are 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  9 

formed  with  men  long  dead,  and  with  men 
whom  we  may  never  see.  The  lives  of  these  men 
have  a  quite  personal  interest  for  us.  Their 
homes  become  as  consecrated  shrines.  Their 
little  ways  and  familiar  phrases  become  en- 
deared to  us,  like  the  little  ways  and  phrases  of 
our  wives  and  children. 

It  is  natural  that  numbers  who  have  once  been 
thrilled  with  this  delight  should  in  turn  aspire 
to  the  privilege  of  exciting  it.  Success  in 
Literature  has  thus  become  not  only  the  ambi- 
tion of  the  highest  minds,  it  has  also  become  the 
ambition  of  minds  intensely  occupied  with  other 
means  of  influencing  their  fellows — with  states- 
men, warriors,  and  rulers.  Prime  ministers 
and  emperors  have  striven  for  distinction  as 
poets,  scholars,  critics,  and  historians.  Un- 
satisfied with  the  powers  and  privileges  of  rank, 
wealth,  and  their  conspicuous  position  in  the 
eyes  of  men,  they  have  longed  also  for  the  nobler 
privilege  of  exercising  a  generous  sway  over  the 
minds  and  hearts  of  readers.  To  gain  this  they 
have  stolen  hours  from  the  pressure  of  affairs, 
and  disregarded  the  allurements  of  luxurious 
ease,  laboring  steadfastly,  hoping  eagerly.  Nor 
have  they  mistaken  the  value  of  the  reward. 
Success  in  Literature  is,  in  truth,  the  blue  rib- 
bon of  nobility. 


10  Success  in  Literature. 

There  is  another  aspect  presented  by  Litera- 
ture. It  has  become  a  profession:  to  many  a 
serious  and  elevating  profession :  to  many  more 
a  mere  trade,  having  miserable  trade-aims  and 
trade-tricks.  As  in  every  other  profession, 
x  the  ranks  are  thronged  with  incompetent  aspi- 
rants, without  seriousness  of  aim,  without  the 
faculties  demanded  by  their  work.  They  are 
led  to  waste  powers  which  in  other  directions 
might  have  done  honest  service,  because  they 
have  failed  to  discriminate  between  aspiration 
and  inspiration,  between  the  desire  for  greatness 
and  the  consciousness  of  power.  Still  lower  in 
the  ranks  are  those  who  follow  Literature  simply 
because  they  see  no  other  opening  for  their  in- 
competence; just  as  forlorn  widows  and  igno- 
rant old  maids  thrown  suddenly  on  their  own 
resources  open  a  school — no  other  means  of 
livelihood  seeming  to  be  within  their  reach. 
Lowest  of  all  are  those  whose  esurient  vanity, 
acting  on  a  frivolous  levity  of  mind,  urges  them 
to  make  Literature  a  plaything  for  display.  To 
write  for  a  livelihood,  even  on  a  complete  misap- 
prehension of  our  powers,  is  at  least  a  respecta- 
ble impulse.  To  play  at  Literature  is  altogether 
\/  inexcusable:  the  motive  is  vanity,  the  object 
notoriety,  the  end  contempt. 


TTie  Meaning  of  Success.  11 

I  propose  to  treat  of  the  Principles  of  Suc- 
cess in  Literature,  in  the  belief  that  if  a  clear 
recognition  of  the  principles  which  underlie 
all  successful  writing  could  once  be  gained,  it 
would  be  no  inconsiderable  help  to  many  a 
young  and  thoughtful  mind.  Is  it  necessary  to 
guard  against  a  misconception  of  my  object, 
and  to  explain  that  I  hope  to  furnish  nothing 
more  than  help  and  encouragement?  There  is 
help  to  be  gained  from  a  clear  understanding  of 
the  conditions  of  success;  and  encouragement 
to  be  gained  from  a  reliance  on  the  ultimate 
victory  of  true  principles.  More  than  this  can 
hardly  be  expected  from  me,  even  on  the  sup- 
position that  I  have  ascertained  the  real  con- 
ditions. N"o  one,  it  is  to  be  presumed,  will 
imagine  that  I  can  have  any  pretension  of  giv- 
ing recipes  for  Literature,  or  of  furnishing 
power  and  talent  where  nature  has  withheld 
them.  I  must  assume  the  presence  of  the  talent, 
and  then  assign  the  conditions  under  which  that 
talent  can  alone  achieve  real  success.  No  man 
is  made  a  discoverer  by  learning  the  principles 
of  scientific  Method;  but  only  by  those  princi- 
ples can  discoveries  be  made;  and  if  he  has  con- 
sciously mastered  them,  he  will  find  them  direct- 
ing his  researches  and  saving  him  from  an  im- 
mensity of  fruitless  labor.  It  is  something  in 


12  Success  in  Literature. 

the  nature  of  the  Method  of  Literature  that  I 
propose  to  expound.  Success  is  not  an  accident. 
All  Literature  is  founded  upon  psychological 
laws,  and  involves  principles  which  are  true  for 
all  peoples  and  for  all  times.  These  principles 
we  are  to  consider  here. 


II. 

The  rarity  of  good  books  in  every  department, 
and  the  enormous  quantity  of  imperfect,  in- 
sincere books,  has  been  the  lament  of  all  times. 
The  complaint  being  as  old  as  Literature  itself, 
we  may  dismiss  without  notice  all  the  accusa- 
tions which  throw  the  burden  on  systems  of 
education,  conditions  of  society,  cheap  books, 
levity  and  superficiality  of  readers  and  analo- 
gous causes.    None  of  these  can  be  a  vera  causa; 
though  each  may  have  had  its  special  influence 
in  determining  the  production  of   some   im- 
perfect works.    The  main  cause  I  take  to  be  that 
,  indicated  in  Goethe's  aphorism :  "  In  this  world 
V  there  are  so  few  voices  and  so  many  echoes." 
^    ;  Books  are  generally  more  deficient  in  sincerity 
i  than  in  cleverness.    Talent,  as  will  become  ap- 
parent in  the  course  of  our  inquiry,  holds  a  very 
subordinate  position  in  Literature  to  that  usual- 
ly assigned  to  it.    Indeed,  a  cursory  inspection 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  13 

of  the  Literature  of  our  day  will  detect  an 
abundance  of  remarkable  talent — that  is,  of 
intellectual  agility,  apprehensiveness,  wit,  fancy, 
and  power  of  expression — which  is  nevertheless 
impotent  to  rescue  "  clever  writing "  from 
neglect  or  contempt.  It  is  unreal  splendor ;  for 
the  most  part  mere  intellectual  fireworks.  In 
Life,  as  in  Literature,  our  admiration  for  mere 
cleverness  has  a  touch  of  contempt  in  it,  and 
is  very  unlike  the  respect  paid  to  character. 
And  justly  so.  No  talent  can  be  supremely  ef- 
fective unless  it  act  in  close  alliance  with  certain 
moral  qualities.  (What  these  qualities  are  will 
be  specified  hereafter.) 

Another  cause,  intimately  allied  with  the  ab- 
sence of  moral  guidance  just  alluded  to,  is  mis- 
direction of  talent.  Valuable  energy  is  wasted 
by  being  misdirected.  Men  are  constantly  at- 
tempting, without  special  aptitude,  work  for 
which  special  aptitude  is  indispensable. 

"  On  peut  fctre  honn£te  homme  et  faire  mal  des  vers." 

A  man  may  be  variously  accomplished,  and 
yet  be  a  feeble  poet.  He  may  be  a  real  poet, 
yet  a  feeble  dramatist.  He  may  have  dra- 
matic faculty,  yet  be  a  feeble  novelist.  He  may 
be  a  good  story-teller,  yet  a  shallow  thinker  and 
a  slip-shod  writer.  For  success  in  any  special 


14   t  Success  in  Literature. 

kind  of  work  it  is  obvious  that  a  special  talent 
is  requisite;  but  obvious  as  this  seems,  when 
stated  as  a  general  proposition,  it  rarely  serves 
to  cheek  a  mistaken  presumption.  There  are 
many  writers  endowed  with  a  certain  suscepti- 
bility to  the  graces  and  refinements  of  Litera- 
ture which  has  been  fostered  by  culture  till  they 
have  mistaken  it  for  native  power;  and  these 
^men,  being  really  destitute  of  native  power,  are 
forced  to  imitate  what  others  have  created. 
They  can  understand  how  a  man  may  have 
musical  sensibility  and  yet  not  be  a  good  singer; 
but  they  fail  to  understand,  at  least  in  their 
own  case,  how  a  man  may  have  literary  sensi- 
bility, yet  not  be  a  good  story-teller  or  an  ef- 
fective dramatist.  They  imagine  that  if  they  are 
cultivated  and  clever,  can  write  what  is  de- 
lusively called  a  "brilliant  style,"  and  are 
familiar  with  the  masterpieces  of  Literature, 
they  must  be  more  competent  to  succeed  in  fic- 
tion or  the  drama  than  a  duller  man,  with  a 
plainer  style  and  slenderer  acquaintance  with 
the  "best  models."  Had  they  distinctly  con- 
ceived the  real  aims  of  Literature  this  mistake 
would  often  have  been  avoided.  A  recognition 
of  the  aims  would  have  pressed  on  their  atten- 
tion a  more  distinct  appreciation  of  the  require- 
ments. 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  15 

No  one  ever  doubted  that  special  aptitudes^ 
were  required  for  music,  mathematics,  drawing,  * 
or  for  wit;  but  other  aptitudes  not  less  special 
are  seldom  recognised.  It  is  with  authors  as 
with  actors:  mere  delight  in  the  art  deludes 
them  into  the  belief  that  they  could  be  artists. 
There  are  born  actors,  as  there  are  born  authors.  — 
To  an  observant  eye  such  men  reveal  their 
native  endowments.  Even  in  conversation  they 
spontaneously  throw  themselves  into  the 
characters  they  speak  of.  They  mimic,  often 
quite  unconsciously,  the  speech  and  gesture  of 
the  person.  They  dramatise  when  they  narrate. 
Other  men  with  little  of  this  faculty,  but  with 
only  so  much  of  it  as  will  enable  them  to  imitate 
the  tones  and  gestures  of  some  admired  actor, 
are  misled  by  their  vanity  into  the  belief  that 
they  also  are  actors,  that  they  also  could  move 
an  audience  as  their  original  moves  it. 

In  Literature  we  see  a  few  original  writers, 
and  a  crowd  of  imitators :  men  of  special  apti- 
tudes, and  men  who  mistake  their  power  of  re- 
peating with  slight  variation  what  others  have 
done,  for  a  power  of  creating  anew.  The  imi- 
tator sees  that  it  is  easy  to  do  that  which  has 
already  been  done  He  intends  to  improve  on 
it ;  to  add  from,  his  own  stores  something  which 


16  Success  in  Literature. 

the  originator  could  not  give;  to  lend  it  the 
lustre. of  a  richer  mind;  to  make  this  situation 
more  impressive  and  that  character  more  nat- 
ural. He  is  vividly  impressed  with  the  imper- 
fections of  the  original.  And  it  is  a  perpetual 
puzzle  to  him  why  the  public,  which  applauds 
his  imperfect  predecessor,  stupidly  fails  to  rec- 
ognise his  own  obvious  improvements. 

It  is  from  such  men  that  the  cry  goes  forth 
about  neglected  genius  and  public  caprice.  In 
secret  they  despise  many  a  distinguished  writer, 
and  privately,  if  not  publicly,  assert  themselves 
as  immeasurably  superior.  The  success  of  a 
Dumas  is  to  them  a  puzzle  and  an  irritation. 
They  do  not  understand  that  a  man  becomes 
distinguished  in  virtue  of  some  special  talent 
properly  directed;  and  that  their  obscurity  is 
due  either  to  the  absence  of  a  special  talent,  or 
to  its  misdirection.  They  may  probably  be  su- 
perior to  Dumas  in  general  culture,  or  various 
ability;  it  is  in  particular  ability  that  they  are 
his  inferiors.  They  may  be  conscious  of  wider 
knowledge,  a  more  exquisite  sensibility,  and  a 
finer  taste  more  finely  cultivated ;  yet  they  have 
failed  to  produce  any  impression  on  the  public 
in  a  direction  where  the  despised  favorite  has 
produced  a  strong  impression.  They  are  thus 
thrown  upon  the  alternative  of  supposing  that 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  17 

he  has  had  "  the  luck  "  denied  to  them,  or  that 
the  public  taste  is  degraded  and  prefers  trash. 
Both  opinions  are  serious  mistakes.  Both  in- 
jure the  mind  that  harbors  them. 

In  how  far  is  success  a  taste  of  merit?  Rig- 
orously considered,  it  is  an  absolute  test.  Nor 
is  such  a  conclusion  shaken  by  the  undeniable 
fact  that  temporary  applause  is  often  secured  by 
works  which  have  no  lasting  value.  For  we 
must  always  ask,  What  is  the  nature  of  the  ap- 
plause, and  from  what  circles  does  it  rise?  A 
work  which  appears  at  a  particular  juncture, 
and  suits  the  fleeting  wants  of  the  hour,  flatter- 
ing the  passions  of  the  hour,  may  make  a  loud 
noise,  and  bring  its  author  into  strong  relief. 
This  is  not  luck,  but  a  certain  fitness  between 
the  author's  mind  and  the  public  needs.  He 
who  first  seizes  the  occasion,  may  be  for  general 
purposes  intrinsically  a  feebler  man  than  many 
who  stand  listless  or  hesitating  till  the  moment 
be  passed;  but  in  Literature,  as  in  Life*,  a  sud- 
den promptitude  outrivals  vacillating  power. 

Generally  speaking,  however,  this  prompti- 
tude has  but  rare  occasions  for  achieving  suc- 
cess. We  may  lay  it  down  as  a  rule  that  no  , 
work  ever  succeeded,  even  for  a  day,  but  it  de- 
served that  success ;  no  work  ever  failed  but  un- 
der conditions  which  made  failure  inevitable. 


18  Success  in  Literature. 

This  will  seem  hard  to  men  who  feel  that  in 
their  case  neglect  arises  from  prejudice  or  stu- 
pidity. Yet  it  is  true  even  in  extreme  cases; 
true  even  when  the  work  once  neglected  has 
since  been  acknowledged  superior  to  the  works 
which  for  a  time  eclipsed  it.  Success,  tempo- 
rary or  enduring,  is  the  measure  of  the  relation, 
temporary  or  enduring,  which  exists  between 
a  work  and  the  public  mini  The  millet  seed 
may  be  intrinsically  less  valuable  than  a  pearl : 
but  the  hungry  cock  wisely  neglected  the  pearl, 
because  pearls  could  not,  and  millet  seeds  could, 
appease  his  hunger.  Who  shall  say  how  much 
of  the  subsequent  success  of  a  once  neglected 
work  is  due  to  the  preparation  of  the  public 
mind  through  the  works  which  for  a  time 
eclipsed  it? 

Let  us  look  candidly  at  this  matter.  It  in- 
terests us  all;  for  we  have  all  more  or  less  to 
contend  against  public  misconception,  no  less 
than  against  our  own  defects.  _The^  object  of 
Literature  is  to  instruct,  to  animate,  or  to 
amuse.  Any  book  which  does  one  of  these 
things  succeeds;  any  book  which  does  none  of 
these  things  fails.  Failure  is  the  indication  of 
an  inability  to  perform  what  was  attempted: 
the  aim  was  misdirected,  or  the  arm  was  too 
weak :  in  either  case  the  mark  has  not  been  hit. 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  19 

"  The  public  taste  is  degraded."  Perhaps  so ; 
and  perhaps  not.  But  in  granting  a  want  of 
due  preparation  in  the  public,  we  only  grant 
that  the  author  has  missed  his  aim.  A  reader 
cannot  be  expected  to  be  interested  in  ideas 
which  are  not  presented  intelligibly  to  him,  nor 
delighted  by  art  which  does  not  touch  him;  and 
for  the  writer  to  imply  that  he  furnishes  argu- 
ments, but  does  not  pretend  to  furnish  brains 
to  understand  the  arguments,  -is  arrogance. 
What  Goethe  says  about  the  most  legible  hand- 
writing being  illegible  in  the  twilight,  is  doubt- 
less true;  and  should  be  oftener  borne  in  mind 
by  frivolous  objectors,  who  declare  that  they  do 
not  understand  this  or  do  not  admire  that,  as  if 
their  want  of  taste  and  understanding  were 
rather  creditable  than  otherwise,  and  were  de- 
cisive proofs  of  an  author's  insignificance.  But 
this  reproof,  which  is  telling  against  individ- 
uals, has  no  justice  as  against  the  public.  For 
— and  this  is  generally  lost  sight  of — the  public 
is  composed  of  the  class  or  classes  directly  ad- 
dressed by  any  work,  and  not  of  the  heterogene- 
ous mass  of  readers.  Mathematicians  do  not 
write  for  the  circulating  library.  Science  is  not 
addressed  to  poets.  Philosophy  is  meant  for 


20  Success  in  Literature. 

students,  not  for  idle  readers.  If  the  members 
of  a  class  do  not  understand, — if  those  directly 
addressed  fail  to  listen,  or  listening,  fail  to 
recognise  a  power  in  the  voice, — surely  the  fault 
lies  with  the  speaker,  who,  having  attempted  to 
secure  their  attention  and  enlighten  their  under- 
standings, has  failed  in  the  attempt.  The 
mathematician  who  is  without  value  to  mathe- 
maticians, the  thinker  who  is  obscure  or  mean- 
ingless to  thinkers,  the  dramatist  who  fails  to 
move  the  pit,  may  be  wise,  may  be  eminent,  but 
as  an  author  he  has  failed.  He  attempted  to 
make  his  wisdom  and  his  power  operate  on  the 
minds  of  others.  He  has  missed  his  mark. 
Margaritas  ante  porcos!  is  the  soothing  maxim 
of  a  disappointed  self-love.  But  we,  who  look 
on,  may  sometimes  doubt  whether  they  were 
pearls  thus  ineffectually  thrown;  and  always 
doubt  the  judiciousness  of  strewing  pearls  be- 
fore swine. 

The  prosperity  of  a  book  lies  in  the  minds  of 
readers.  Public  knowledge  and  public  taste 
fluctuate;  and  there  come  times  when  works 
which  were  once  capable  of  instructing  and  de- 
lighting thousands  lose  their  power,  and  works, 
before  neglected,  emerge  into  renown.  A  small 
minority  to  whom  these  works  appealed  has 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  21 

gradually  become  a  large  minority,  and  in  the 
evolution  of  opinion  will  perhaps  become  the 
majority.  N"o  man  can  pretend  to  say  that  the 
work  neglected  to-day  will  not  be  a  household 
word  to-morrow;  or  that  the  pride  and  glory  of 
our  age  will  not  be  covered  with  cobwebs  on  the 
bookshelves  of  our  children.  Those  works  alone 
can  have  enduring  success  which  successfully 
appeal  to  what  is  permanent  in  human  nature — 
which,  while  suiting  the  taste  of  the  day,  con- 
tain truths  and  beauty  deeper  than  the  opinions 
and  tastes  of  the  day;  but  even  temporary  suc- 
cess implies  a  certain  temporary  fitness.  Iif 
Homer,  Sophocles,  Dante,  Shakspeare,  Cer- 
vantes, we  are  made  aware  of  much  that  no 
longer  accords  with  the  wisdom  or  the  taste  of 
our  day — temporary  and  immature  expressions 
of  fluctuating  opinions — but  we  are  also  aware 
of  much  that  is  both  true  and  noble  now,  and 
will  be  so  for  ever. 

It  is  only  posterity  that  can  decide  whether 
the  success  or  failure  shall  be  enduring;  for  it 
is  only  posterity  that  can  reveal  whether  the  re- 
lation now  existing  between  the  work  and  the 
public  mind  is  or  is  not  liable  to  fluctuation. 
Yet  no  man  really  writes  for  posterity ;  no  man  \ 
ought  to  do  so.  , 


22  Success  in  Literature. 

"  Wer  machte  denn  der  Mitwelt  Spass?" 

("Who  is  to  amuse  the  present?")  asks  the 
wise  Merry  Andrew  in  Faust.  We  must  leave 
posterity  to  choose  its  own  idols.  There  is, 
however,  this  chance  in  favor  of  any  work  which 
has  once  achieved  success,  that  what  has  pleased 
one  generation  may  please  another,  because  it 
may  be  based  upon  a  truth  or  beauty  which  can- 
not die;  and  there  is  this  chance  against  any 
work  which  has  once  failed,  that  its  unfitness 
may  be  owing  to  some  falsehood  or  imperfection 
which  cannot  live. 

III. 

In  urging  all  writers  to  be  steadfast  in  re- 
liance on  the  ultimate  victory  of  excellence,  we 
should  no  less  strenuously  urge  upon  them  to 
beware  of  the  intemperate  arrogance  which  at- 
tributes failure  to  a  degraded  condition  of  the 
public  mind.  The  instinct  which  leads  the 
world  to  worship  success  is  not  dangerous. 
The  book  which  succeeds  accomplishes  its 
aim.  The  book  which  fails  may  have  many 
excellencies,  but  they  must  have  been  mis- 
directed. Let  us,  however,  understand  what 
is  meant  by  failure.  From  want  of  a  clear 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  23 

recognition  of  this  meaning,  many  t  serious 
writer  has  been  made  bitter  by  the  reflection 
that  shallow,  feeble  works  have  found  large  au- 
diences, whereas  his  own  work  has  not  paid  the 
printing  expenses.  He  forgets  that  the  reeders 
who  found  instruction  and  amusement  in  the 
shallow  books  could  have  found  none  in  his 
book,  because  he  had  not  the  art  of  making 
ideas  intelligible  and  attractive  to  them,  or  had 
not  duly  considered  what  food  was  assimilable 
by  their  minds.  It  is  idle  to  write  in  hiero- 
glyphics for  the  mass  when  only  priests  can  read 
the  sacred  symbols. 

No  one,  it  is  hoped,  will  suppose  that  by  what 
is  here  said  I  countenance  the  notion  which  is 
held  by  some  authors — a  notion  implying  either 
arrogant  self-sufficiency  or  mercenary  servility 
— that  to  succeed,  a  man  should  write  down  to 
the  public.  Quite  the  reverse.  To  succeed,  a 
man  should  write  up  to  his  ideal.  He  should 
do  his  very  best ;  certain  that  the  very  best  will 
still  fall  short  of  what  the  public  can  appre- 
ciate. He  will  only  degrade  his  own  mind  by 
putting  forth  works  avowedly  of  inferior  qual- 
ity; and  will  find  himself  greatly  surpassed  by 
writers  whose  inferior  workmanship  has  never- 
theless the  indefinable  aspect  of  being  the  best 


24  Success  in  Literature. 

they  can  produce.  The  man  of  common  mind 
is  more  directly  in  sympathy  with  the  vulgar 
public,  and  can  speak  to  it  more  intelligibly, 
than  any  one  who  is  condescending  to  it.  If 
you  feel  yourself  to  be  above  the  mass,  speak 
so  as  to  raise  the  mass  to  the  height  of  your  ar- 
gument. It  may  be  that  the  interval  is  too 
great.  It  may  be  that  the  nature  of  your  ar- 
guments is  such  as  to  demand  from  the  audience 
an  intellectual  preparation,  and  a  habit  of  con- 
centrated continuity  of  thought,  which  cannot 
be  expected  from  a  miscellaneous  assembly. 
The  scholarship  of  a  Scaliger  or  the  philosophy 
of  a  Kant  will  obviously  require  an  audience  of 
scholars  and  philosophers.  And  in  cases  where 
the  nature  of  the  work  limits  the  class  of  read- 
ers, no  man  should  complain  if  the  readers  he 
does  not  address  pass  him  by  to  follow  another. 
He  will  not  allure  these  by  writing  down  to 
them;  or  if  he  allures  them,  he  will  lose  those 
who  properly  constitute  his  real  audience. 

A  writer  misdirects  his  talent  if  he  lowers  his 
standard  of  excellence.  Whatever  he  can  do 
best  let  him  do  that,  certain  of  reward  in  pro- 
portion to  his  excellence.  The  reward  is  not 
always  measurable  by  the  number  of  copies  sold ; 
that  simply  measures  the  extent  of  his  public. 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  25 

It  may  prove  that  he  has  stirred  the  hearts  and 
enlightened  the  minds  of  many.  It  may  also 
prove,  as  Johnson  says,  "  that  his  nonsense  suits  \/ 
their  nonsense."  The  real  reward  of  Liter-' 
ature  is  in  the  sympathy  of  congenial  minds, 
and  is  precious  in  proportion  to  the  elevation 
of  those  minds,  and  the  gravity  with  which  such  ; 
sympathy  moves:  the  admiration  of  a  mathe- 
matician for  the  Mecanique  Celeste,  for  exam- 
ple, is  altogether  higher  in  kind  than  the  admi- 
ration of  a  novel  reader  for  the  last  "  delightful 
story/'  And  what  should  we  think  of  Laplace 
if  he  were  made  bitter  by  the  wider  popularity 
of  Dumas  ?  Would  he  forfeit  the  admiration  of 
one  philosopher  for  that  of  a  thousand  novel 
readers  ? 

To  ask  this  question  is  to  answer  it ;  yet  daily 
experience  tells  us  that  not  only  in  lowering 
his  standard,  but  in  running  after  a  popularity 
incompatible  with  the  nature  of  his  talent,  does 
many  a  writer  forfeit  his  chance  of  success. 
The  novel  and  the  drama,  by  reason  of  their 
commanding  influence  over  a  large  audience, 
often  seduce  writers  to  forsake  the  path  on  - 
which  they  could  labor  with  some  success,  but 
on  which  they  know  that  only  a  very  small  au- 
dience can  be  found ;  as  if  it  were  quantity  more 


26  Success  in  Literature. 

than  quality,  noise  rather  than  appreciation, 
which  their  mistaken  desires  sought.  Unhap- 
pily for  them,  they  lose  the  substance,  and  only 
snap  at  the  shadow.  The  audience  may  be 
large,  but  it  will  not  listen  to  them.  The  novel 
may  be  more  popular  and  more  lucrative,  when 
successful,  than  the  history  or  the  essay;  but 
to  make  it  popular  and  lucrative  the  writer 
needs  a  special  talent,  and  this,  as  was  before 
hinted,  seems  frequently  forgotten  by  those  who 
take  to  novel  writing.  Nay,  it  is  often  forgot- 
ten by  the  critics;  they  being,  in  general,  men 
without  the  special  talent  themselves,  set  no 
great  value  on  it.  They  imagine  that  Invention 
may  be  replaced  by  culture,  and  that  "clever 
writing5''  will  do  duty  for  dramatic  power. 
They  applaud  the  "drawing"  of  a  character, 
which  drawing  turns  out  on  inspection  to  be  lit- 
tle more  thaji  an  epigrammatic  enumeration  of 
particularities,  the  character  thus  "drawn" 
losing  all  individuality  as  soon  as  speech  and  ac- 
tion are  called  upon.  Indeed,  there  are  two 
mistakes  very  common  among  reviewers :  one  is 
the  overvaluation  of  what  is  usually  considered 
as  literary  ability  ("brilliant  writing"  it  is 
called;  "literary  tinsel"  would  be  more  de- 
scriptive) to  the  prejudice  of  Invention  and  In- 
dividuality; the  other  is  the  overvaluation  of 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  27 

what  they  call  "  solid  acquirements/'  which 
really  mean  no  more  than  an  acquaintance  with 
the  classics.  As  a  fact,  literary  ability  and  solid 
acquirements  are  to  be  had  in  abundance;  in- 
vention, humor,  and  originality  are  excessively 
rare.  It  may  be  a  painful  reflection  to  those 
who,  having  had  a  great  deal  of  money  spent 
on  their  education,  and  having  given  a  great 
deal  of  time  to  their  solid  acquirements,  now  see  \ 
genius  and  original  power  of  all  kinds  more  es- 
teemed than  their  learning;  but  they  should  re- 
flect that  what  is  learning  now  is  only  the  dif- 
fused form  of  what  was  once  invention.  "  Solid 
acquirement "  is  the  genius  of  wits  become  the 
wisdom  of  reviewers. 


IV. 

Authors  are  styled  an  irritable  race,  and 
justly,  if  the  epithet  be  understood  in  its  physio- 
logical rather  than  its  moral  sense.  This  irri- 
tability, which  responds  to  the  slightest  stimu- 
lus, leads  to  much  of  the  misdirection  of  talent 
we  have  been  considering.  The  greatness  of  an 
author  consists  in  having  a  mind  extremely  ir- 
ritable, and  at  the  same  time  steadfastly  im- 
perial:— irritable,  that  no  stimulus  may  be 


28  Success  in  Literature. 

inoperative,  even  in  its  most  evanescent  solici- 
tations ;  imperial,  that  no  solicitation  may  divert 
him  from  his  deliberately  chosen  aims.  A  ma- 
gisterial subjection  of  all  dispersive  influences, 
a  concentration  of  the  mind  upon  the  thing  that 
has  to  be  done,  and  a  proud  renunciation  of  all 
means  of  effect  which  do  not  spontaneously 
connect  themselves  with  it — these  are  the  rare 
qualities  which  mark  out  the  man  of  genius. 
In  men  of  lesser  calibre  the  mind  is  more  con- 
stantly open  to  determination  from  extrinsic 
influences.  Their  movement  is  not  self-deter- 
mined, self-sustained.  In  men  of  still  smaller 
calibre  the  mind  is  entirely  determined  by  ex- 
trinsic influences.  They  are  prompted  to  write 
poems  by  no  musical  instinct,  but  simply  be- 
cause great  poems  have  enchanted  the  world. 
They  resolve  to  write  novels  upon  the  vulgarest 
provocations:  they  see  novels  bringing  money 
and  fame ;  they  think  there  is  no  difficulty  in  the 
art.  The  novel  will  afford  them  an  opportunity 
of  bringing  in  a  variety  of  scattered  details; 
scraps  of  knowledge  too  scanty  for  an  essay,  and 
scraps  of  experience  too  meagre  for  independent 
publication.  Others,  again,  attempt  histories, 
or  works  of  popular  philosophy  and  science ;  not 


The  Meaning  of  Success.  29 

because  they  have  any  special  stores  of  knowl- 
edge, or  because  any  striking  novelty  of  concep- 
tion urges  them  to  use  up  old  material  in  a  new 
shape,  but  simply  because  they  have  just  been 
reading  with  interest  some  work  of  history  or 
science,  and  are  impatient  to  impart  to  others 
the  knowledge  they  have  just  acquired  for 
themselves.  Generally  it  may  be  remarked  that 
the  pride  which  follows  the  sudden  emancipa- 
tion of  the  mind  from  ignorance  of  any  subject, 
is  accompanied  by  a  feeling  that  all  the  world 
must  be  in  the  state  of  darkness  from  which  we 
have  ourselves  emerged.  It  is  the  knowledge 
learned  yesterday  which  is  most  freely  imparted 
to-day. 

We  need  not  insist  on  the  obvious  fact  of  there 
being  more  irritability  than  mastery,  more  imi- 
tation than  creation,  more  echoes  than  voices 
in  the  world  of  Literature.  Good  writers  are 
of  necessity  rare.  But  the  ranks  would  be  less 
crowded  with  incompetent  writers  if  men  of 
real  ability  were  not  so  often  misdirected  in 
their  aims.  My  object  is  to  define,  if  possible, 
the  Principles  of  Success — not  to  supply  recipes 
for  absent  power,  but  to  expound  the  laws 
through  which  power  is  efficient,  and  to  explain 
the  causes  which  determine  success  in  exact 


80  Success  in  Literature. 

proportion  to  the  native  power  on  the  one  hand, 
and  to  the  state  of  public  opinion  on  the  other. 

The  laws  of  Literature  may  be  grouped  under 
three  heads.  Perhaps  we  might  say  they  are 
three  forms  of  one  principle.  They  are 
founded  on  our  threefold  nature — intellectual, 
moral,  and  aesthetic. 

The  intellectual  form  is  the  Principle  of  Vis- 
ion. 

The  moral  form  is  the  Principle  of  Sincerity. 

The  aesthetic  form  is  the  Principle  of  Beauty. 

It  will  be  my  endeavor  to  give  definite  signifi- 
cance, in  succeeding  chapters,  to  these  expres- 
sions, which,  standing  unexplained  and  unillus- 
trated,  probably  convey  very  little  meaning. 
We  shall  then  see  that  every  work,  no  matter 
what  its  subject-matter,  necessarily  involves 
these  three  principles  in  varying  degrees;  and 
that  its  success  is  always  strictly  in  accordance 
with  its  conformity  to  the  guidance  of  these 
principles. 

Unless  a  writer  has  what,  for  the  sake  of 
brevity,  I  have  called  Vision,  enabling  him  to 
see  clearly  the  facts  or  ideas,  the  objects  or  re- 
lations, which  he  places  before  us  for  our  own 
instruction,  his  work  must  obviously  be  defect- 
ive. He  must  see  clearly  if  we  are  to  see 


The  Meaninglpf  Success.  31 

clearly.  Unless  a  writer  has  Sincerity,  urging 
him  to  place  before  us  what  he  sees  and  believes 
as  he  sees  and  believes  it,  the  defective  earnest- 
ness of  his  presentation  will  cause  an  imperfect 
sympathy  in  us.  He  must  believe  what  he  says, 
or  we  shall  not  believe  it.  Insincerity  is  always 
weakness;  sincerity  even  in  error  is  strength!. 
This  is  not  so  obvious  a  principle  as  the  first; 
at  any  rate  it  is  one  more  profoundly  disre- 
garded by  writers. 

Finally,  unless  the  writer  has  grace — the 
principle  of  Beauty  I  have  named  it — enabling 
him  to  give  some  aesthetic  charm  to  his  presen- 
tation, were  it  only  the  charm  of  well-arranged 
material,  and  well-constructed  sentences,  a 
charm  sensible  through  all  the  intricacies  of 
composition  and  of  style,  he  will  not  do  justice 
to  his  powers,  and  will  either  fail  to  make  his 
work  acceptable,  or  will  very  seriously  limit  its 
success.  The  amount  of  influence  issuing  from 
this  principle  of  Beauty  will,  of  course,  be 
greatly  determined  by  the  more  or  less  aesthetic 
nature  of  the  work. 

Books  minister  to  our  knowledge,  to  our  guid- 
ance, and  to  our  delight,  by  their  truth,  their 
uprightness  and  their  art.  Truth  is  the  aim  of 
Literature.  Sincerity  is  moral  truth.  Beauty 


32  Success  in  Literature. 

is  aesthetic  truth.  How  rigorously  these  three 
principles  determine  the  success  of  all  works 
whatever,  and  how  rigorously  every  departure 
from  them,  no  matter  how  slight,  determines 
proportional  failure,  with  the  inexorable  se- 
quence of  a  physical  law,  it  will  be  my  endeavor 
to  prove  in  the  chapters  which  are  to  follow. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  PRINCIPLE  OF  VISION. 

All  good  Literature  rests  primarily  on  in- 
sight. All  bad  Literature  rests  upon  imperfect 
insight,  or  upon  imitation,  which  may  be  defined 
as  seeing  at  second-hand. 

There  are  men  of  clear  insight  who  never 
become  authors:  some,,  because  no  sufficient 
solicitation  from  internal  or  external  impulses 
makes  them  bend  their  energies  to  the  task  of 
giving  literary  expression  to  their  thoughts; 
and  some,  because  they  lack  the  adequate  powers 
of  literary  expression.  But  no  man,  be  his  fe- 
licity and  facility  of  expression  what  they  may, 
ever  produces  good  Literature  unless  he  sees  for 
himself,  and  sees  clearly.  It  is  the  very  claim 
and  purpose  of  Literature  to  show  others  what 
they  failed  to  see.  Unless  a  man  sees  this 
clearly  for  himself,  how  can  he  show  it  to 
others  ? 

Literature  delivers  tidings  of  the  world 
within  and  the  world  without.  It  tells  of  the 


34  Success  in  Literature. 

facts  which  have  been  witnessed,  reproduces  the 
emotions  which  have  been  felt.  It  places  before 
the  reader  symbols  which  represent  the  absent 
facts,  or  the  relations  of  these  to  other  facts; 
and  by  the  vivid  presentation  of  the  symbols 
of  emotion  kindles  the  emotive  sympathy  of 
readers.  The  art  of  selecting  the  fitting  sym- 
bols, and  of  so  arranging  them  as  to  be  intelli- 
gible and  kindling,  distinguishes  the  great 
writer  from  the  great  thinker;  it  is  an  art 
which  also  relies  on  clear  insight. 

The  value  of  the  tidings  brought  by.  Litera- 
ture is  determined  by  their  authenticity.  At  all 
times  the  air  is  noisy  with  rumors,  but  the  real 
business  of  life  is  transacted  on  clear  insight 
and  authentic  speech.  False  tidings  and  idle 
rumors  may  for  an  hour  clamorously  usurp  at- 
tention, because  they  are  believed  to  be  true ;  but 
the  cheat  is  soon  discovered,  and  the  rumor  dies. 
In  like  manner  Literature  which  is  unauthentic 
may  succeed  as  long  as  it  is  believed  to  be  true : 
that  is,  so  long  as  our  intellects  have  not  dis- 
covered the  falseness  of  its  pretensions,  and  our 
feelings  have  not  disowned  sympathy  with  its 
expressions.  These  may  be  truisms,  but  they 
are  constantly  disregarded.  Writers  have  sel- 
dom any  steadfast  conviction  that  it  is  of  pri- 
mary necessity  for  them  to  deliver  tidings  about 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  35 

what  they  themselves  have  seen  and  felt.  Per- 
haps their  intimate  consciousness  assures  them 
that  what  they  have  seen  or  felt  is  neither  new 
nor  important.  It  may  not  be  new,  it  may  not 
be  intrinsically  important;  nevertheless,  if  au- 
thentic, it  has  its  value,  and  a  far  greater  value 
than  anything  reported  by  them  at  second-hand. 
We  cannot  demand  from  every  man  that  he  have 
unusual  depth  of  insight  or  exceptional  experi- 
ence ;  but  we  demand  of  him  that  he  give  us  of 
his  best,  and  his  best  cannot  be  another's.  The 
facts  seen  through  the  vision  of  another,  re- 
ported on  the  witness  of  another,  may  be  true, 
but  the  reporter  cannot  vouch  for  them.  Let 
the  original  observer  speak  for  himself.  Other- 
wise only  rumors  are  set  afloat.  If  you  have 
never  seen  an  acid  combine  with  a  base,  you 
cannot  instructively  speak  to  me  of  salts;  and 
this,  of  course,  is  true  in  a  more  emphatic  degree 
with  reference  to  more  complex  matters. 

Personal  experience  is  the  basis  of  all  real 
Literature.  The  writer  must  have  thought  the 
thoughts,  seen  the  objects  (with  bodily  or  men- 
tal vision),  and  felt  the  feelings;  otherwise  he 
can  have  no  power  over  us.  Importance  does  > 
not  depend  on  rarity  so  much  as  on  authenticity. 
The  massacre  of  a  distant  tribe,  which  is  heard 


36  Success  in  Literature. 

through  the  report  of  others,  falls  far  below  the 
heart-shaking  effect  of  a  murder  committed  in 
our  presence.  Our  sympathy  with  the  unknown 
victim  may  originally  have  been  as  torpid  as 
that  with  the  unknown  tribe;  but  it  has  been 
kindled  by  the  swift  and  vivid  suggestions  of 
details  visible  to  us  as  spectators;  whereas  a 
severe  and  continuous  effort  of  imagination  is 
needed  to  call  up  the  kindling  suggestions  of 
the  distant  massacre. 

So  little  do  writers  appreciate  the  importance 
of  direct  vision  and  experience,,  that  they  are  in 
general  silent  about  what  they  themselves  have 
seen  and  felt,  copious  in  reporting  the  experi- 
ence of  others.  Nay,  they  are  urgently 
prompted  to  say  what  they  know  others  think, 
and  what  consequently  they  themselves  may  be 
expected  to  think.  They  are  as  if  dismayed  at 
their  own  individuality,  and  suppress  all  traces 
of  it  in  order  to  catch  the  general  tone.  Such 
men  may,  indeed,  be  of  service  in  the  ordinary 
commerce  of  Literature  as  distributors.  All  I 
wish  to  point  out  is  that  they  are  distributors, 
not  producers.  The  commerce  may  be  served  by 
second-hand  reporters,  no  less  than  by  original 
seers;  but  we  must  understand  this  service  to 
be  commercial,  and  not  literary.  The  common 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  37 

stock  of  knowledge  gains  from  it  no  addition. 
The  man  who  detects  a  new  fact,  a  new  property 
in  a  familiar  substance,  adds  to  the  science  of 
the  age;  but  the  man  who  expounds  the  whole 
system  of  the  universe  on  the  reports  of  others, 
unenlightened  by  new  conceptions  of  his  own, 
does  not  add  a  grain  to  the  common  store. 
Great  writers  may  all  be  known  by  their  solici- 
tude about  authenticity.  A  common  incident, 
a  simple  phenomenon,  which  has  been  a  part 
of  their  experience,  often  undergoes  what  may 
be  called  "  a  transfiguration "  in  their  souls, 
and  issues  in  the  form  of  Art;  while  many 
world-agitating  events  in  which  they  have 
not  been  actors,  or  majestic  phenomena  of 
which  they  were  never  spectators,  are  by 
them  left  to  the  unhesitating  incompetence 
of  writers  who  imagine  that  fine  subjects  make 
fine  works.  Either  the  great  writer  leaves 
such  materials  untoiiched,  or  he  employs  them 
as  the  vehicle  of  more  cherished,  because  more 
authenticated,  tidings,— he  paints  the  ruin  of 
an  empire  as  the  scenic  background  for  his 
picture  of  the  distress  of  two  simple  hearts. 
The  inferior  writer,  because  he  lays  no  emphasis 
on  authenticity,  cannot  understand  this  avoid- 
ance of  imposing  themes.  Condemned  by 


38  Success  in  Literature. 

native  incapacity  to  be  a  reporter,  and  not  a 
seer,  he  hopes  to  shine  by  the  reflected  glory 
of  his  subjects.  It  is  natural  in  him  to  mistake 
ambitious  art  for  high  art.  He  does  not  feel 
that  the  best  is  the  highest. 

I  do  not  assert  that  inferior  writers  abstain 
from  the  familiar  and  trivial.  On  the  contrary, 
as  imitators,  they  imitate  everything  which 
great  writers  have  shown  to  be  sources  of  in- 
terest. But  their  bias  is  towards  great  subjects. 
They  make  no  new  ventures  in  the  direction  of 
personal  experience.  They  are  silent  on  all 
that  they  have  really  seen  for  themselves.  Un- 
able to  see  the  deep  significance  of  what  is  com- 
mon, they  spontaneously  turn  towards  the  un- 
common. 

There  is,  at  the  present  day,  a  fashion  in  Lit- 
erature, and  in  Art  generally,  which  is  very  de- 
plorable, and  which  may,  on  a  superficial  glance, 
appear  at  variance  with  what  has  just  been  said. 
The  fashion  is  that  of  coat-and-waistcoat  real- 
ism, a  creeping  timidity  of  invention,  moving 
almost  exclusively  amid  scenes  of  drawing-room 
existence,  with  all  the  reticences  and  pettinesses 
of  drawing-room  conventions.  Artists  have  be- 
come photographers,  and  have  turned  the  cam- 
era upon  the  vulgarities  of  life,  instead  of  rep- 
resenting the  more  impassioned  movements  of 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  39 

life.  The  majority  of  books  and  pictures  are 
addressed  to  our  lower  faculties;  they  make  no 
effort,  as  they  have  no  power,  to  stir  our  deeper 
emotions  by  the  contagion  of  great  ideas.  Lit- 
tle that  makes  life  noble  and  solemn  is  reflected 
in  the  Art  of  our  day;  to  amuse  a  languid 
audience  seems  its  highest  aim,  Seeing  this, 
some  of  my  readers  may  ask  whether  the  artists 
have  not  been  faithful  to  the  law  I  have  ex- 
pounded, and  chosen  to  paint  the  small  things 
they  have  seen,  rather  than  the  great  things 
they  have  not  seen?  The  answer  is  simple. 
For  the  most  part  the  artists  have  not  painted 
what  they  have  seen,  but  have  been  false  and 
conventional  in  their  pretended  realism.  And 
whenever  they  have  painted  truly,  they  have 
painted  successfully.  The  authenticity  of  their 
work  has  given  it  all  the  value  which  in  the 
nature  of  things  such  work  could  have.  Ti-l 
tian's  portrait  of  "The  Young  Man  with  a! 
Glove,"  is  a  great  work  of  art,  though  not  of 
great  art.  It  is  infinitely  higher  than  a  portrait 
of  Cromwell,  by  a  painter  unable  to  see  into  the 
great  soul  of  Cromwell,  and  to  make  us  see  it; 
but  it  is  infinitely  lower  than  Titian's  "  Tribute 
Money/'  "  Peter  the  Martyr,"  or  the  "  Assump- 
tion." Tennyson's  "  Northern  Farmer  "  is  in- 
comparably greater  as  a  poem  than  Mr.  Bailey's 


40  Success  in  Literature. 

ambitious  "  Festus ;  "  but  the  "  Northern  Farm- 
er "  is  far  below  "  Ulysses "  or  "  Guinevere/' 
because  moving  on  a  lower  level,  and  recording 
the  facts  of  a  lower  life. 

Insight  is  the  first  condition  of  Art.  Yet 
many  a  man  who  has  never  been  beyond  his  vil- 
lage will  be  silent  about  that  which  he  knows 
well,  and  will  fancy  himself  called  upon  to  speak 
of  the  tropics  or  the  Andes — on  the  reports  of 
others.  Never  having  seen  a  greater  man  than 
the  parson  and  the  squire — and  not  having  seen 
into  them — he  selects  Cromwell  and  Plato, 
Kaphael  and  Napoleon,  as  his  models,  in  the 
vain  belief  that  these  impressive  personalities 
will  make  his  work  impressive.  Of  course  I  am 
speaking  figuratively.  By  "  never  having  been 
beyond  his  village/5  I  understand  a  mental  no 
less  than  topographical  limitation.  The  pene- 
trating sympathy  of  genius  will,  even  from  a 
village,  traverse  the  whole  world.  What  I  mean 
is,  that  unless  by  personal  experience,  no  matter 
through  what  avenues,  a  man  has  gained  clear 
insight  into  the  facts  of  life,  he  cannot  success- 
fully place  them  before  us ;  and  whatever  insight 
he  has  gained,  be  it  of  important  or  of  unim- 
portant facts,  will  be  of  value  if  truly  repro- 
duced. No  sunset  is  precisely  similar  to 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  41 

another,  no  two  souls  are  affected  by  it  in  a  pre- 
cisely similar  way.  Thus  may  the  commonest 
phenomenon  have  a  novelty.  To  the  eye  that 
can  read  aright  there  is  an  infinite  variety  even 
in  the  most  ordinary  human  being.  But  to  the 
careless  indiscriminating  eye  all  individuality  is 
merged  in  a  misty  generality.  Nature  and  men 
yield  nothing  new  to  such  a  mind.  Of  what 
avail  is  it  for  a  man  to  walk  out  into  the  tremu- 
lous mists  of  morning,  to  watch  the  slow  sunset, 
and  wait  for  the  rising  stars,  if  he  can  tell  us 
nothing  about  these  but  what  others  have  al- 
ready told  us — if  he  feels  nothing  but  what 
others  have  already  felt?  Let  a  man  look  for 
himself  and  tell  truly  what  he  sees.  We  will 
listen  to  that.  We  must  listen  to  it,  for  its 
very  authenticity  has  a  subtle  power  of  com- 
pulsion. What  others  have  seen  and  felt  we 
can  learn  better  from  their  own  lips. 

IL 

I  have  not  yet  explained  in  any  formal  man- 
ner what  the  nature  of  that  insight  is  which  con- 
stitutes what  I  have  named  the  Principle  of 
Vision ;  although  doubtless  the  reader  has  gath- 
ered its  meaning  from  the  remarks  already 


42  Success  in  Literature. 

made.  For  the  sake  of  future  applications  of 
the  principle  to  the  various  questions  of  philo- 
sophical criticism  which  must  arise  in  the  course 
of  this  inquiry,  it  may  be  needful  here  to  explain 
(as  I  have  already  explained  elsewhere)  how 
the  chief  intellectual  operations — Perception, 
Inference,  Reasoning,  and  Imagination — may 
be  viewed  as  so  many  forms  of  mental  vision. 

Perception,  as  distinguished  from  Sensation, 
is  the  presentation  before  Consciousness  of  the 
details  which  once  were  present  in  conjunction 
with  the  object  at  this  moment  affecting  Sense. 
These  details  are  inferred  to  be  still  in  conjunc- 
tion with  the  object,  although  not  revealed  to 
Sense.  Thus  when  an  apple  is  perceived  by  me, 
who  merely  see  it,  all  that  Sense  reports  is  of 
a  certain  colored  surface:  the  roundness,  the 
firmness,  the  fragrance,  and  the  taste  of  the 
apple  are  not  present  to  Sense,  but  are  made 
present  to  Consciousness  by  the  act  of  Percep- 
tion. The  eye  sees  a  certain  colored  surface; 
the  mind  sees  at  the  same  instant  many  other 
co-existent  but  unapparent  facts — it  reinstates 
ir  their  due  order  these  unapparent  facts. 
Were  it  not  for  this  mental  vision  supplying  the 
deficiencies  of  ocular  vision,  the  colored  surface 
would  be  an  enigma.  But  the  suggestion  of 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  43 

Sense  rapidly  recalls  the  experiences 'previously 
associated  with  the  object.  The  apparent  facts 
disclose  the  facts  that  are  unapparent. 

Inference  is  only  a  higher  form  of  the  same 
process.  We  look  from  the  window,  see  the 
dripping  leaves  and  the  wet  ground,  and  infer 
that  rain  has  f allefn.  It  is  on  inferences  of  this 
kind  that  all  knowledge  depends.  The  exten- 
sion of  the  known  to  the  unknown,  of  the  ap- 
parent to  the  unapparent,  gives  us  Science. 
Except  in  the  grandeur  of  its  sweep,  the  mind 
pursues  the  same  course  in  the  interpretation  of 
geological  facts  as  in  the  interpretation  of  the 
ordinary  incidents  of  daily  experience.  To 
read  the  pages  of  the  great  Stone  Book,  and  to 
perceive  from  the  wet  streets  that  rain  has  re- 
cently fallen,  are  forms  of  the  same  intellectual 
process.  In  the  one  case  the  inference  traverses 
immeasurable  space  of  time,  connecting  the 
apparent  facts  with  causes  (unapparent  facts) 
similar  to  those  which  have  been  associated  in 
experience  with  such  results;  in  the  other  case 
the  inference  connects  wet  streets  and  swollen 
gutters  with  causes  which  have  been  associated 
in  experience  with  such  results.  Let  the  in- 
ference span  with  its  mighty  arch  a  myriad  of 
years,  or  link  together  the  events  of  a  few 


44  Success  in  Literature. 

minutes,  in  each  case  the  arch  rises  from  the 
ground  of  familiar  facts,  and  reaches  an  ante- 
cedent which  is  known  to  be  a  cause  capable  of 
producing  them. 

The  mental  vision  by  which  in  Perception  we 
see  the  unapparent  details — i.  e.,  by  which  sen- 
sations formerly  co-existing  with  the  one  now 
affecting  us  are  reinstated  under  the  form  of 
ideas  which  represent  the  objects — is  a  process 
implied  in  all  Katiocination,  which  also  presents 
an  ideal  series,  such  as  would  be  a  series  of  sen- 
sations, if  the  objects  themselves  were  before  us. 
A  chain  of  reasoning  is  a  chain  of  inferences : 
ideal  presentations  of  objects  and  relations  not 
apparent  to  Sense,  or  not  presentable  to  Sense. 
Could  we  realise  all  the  links  in  this  chain,  by 
placing  the  objects  in  their  actual  order  as  a 
visible  series,  the  reasoning  would  be  a  succes- 
sion of  perceptions.  Thus  the  path  of  a  planet 
is  seen  by  reason  to  be  an  ellipse.  It  would  be 
perceived  as  a  fact,  if  we  were  in  a  proper  posi- 
tion and  endowed  with  the  requsite  means  of 
following  the  planet  in  its  course;  but  not  hav- 
ing this  power,  we  are  reduced  to  infer  the  un- 
apparent points  in  its  course  from  the  points 
which  are  apparent.  We  see  them  mentally. 
Correct  reasoning  is  the  ideal  assemblage  of  ob- 
jects in  their  actual  order  of  co-existence  and 


-The  Principle  of  Vision.  45 

succession.  It  is  seeing  with  the  mind's  eye. 
False  reasoning  is  owing  to  some  misplacement 
of  the  order  of  objects,  or  to  the  omission  of 
some  links  in  the  chain,  or  to  the  introduction 
of  objects  not  properly  belonging  to  the  series. 
It  is  distorted  or  defective  vision.  The  terri- 
fied traveller  sees  a  highwayman  in  what  is 
really  a  sign-post  in  the  twilight;  and  in  the 
twilight  of  knowledge,  the  terrified  philosopher 
sees  a  pestilence  foreshadowed  by  an  eclipse. 

Let  attention  also  be  called  to  one  great  source- 
of  error,  which  is  also  a  great  source  of  power, 
namely,  that  much  of  our  thinking  is  carried  on 
by  signs  instead  of  images.  We  use  words  as 
signs  of  objects;  these  suffice  to  carry  on  the 
train  of  inference,  when  very  few  images  of  the 
objects  are  called  up.  Let  anyone  attend  to 
his  thoughts  and  he  will  be  surprised  to  find 
how  rare  and  indistinct  in  general  are  the 
images  of  objects  which  arise  before  his  mind. 
If  he  says  "  I  shall  take  a  cab  and  get  to  the 
railway  by  the  shortest  cut,"  it  is  ten  to  one  that 
he  forms  no  image  of  cab  or  railway,  and  but 
a  very  vague  image  of  the  streets  through  which 
the  shortest  cut  will  lead.  Imaginative  minds/  jr 
see  images  where  ordinary  minds  see  nothing 
but  signs :  this  is  a  source  of  power ;  but  it  is 


46  Success  in  Literature. 

also  a  source  of  weakness ;  for  in  the  practical 
affairs  of  life,  and  in  the  theoretical  investiga- 
tions of  philosophy,  a  too  active  imagination  is 
apt  to  distract  the  attention  and  scatter  the 
energies  of  the  mind. 

In  complex  trains  of  thought  signs  are  indis- 
pensable. The  images,  when  called  up,  are  only 
vanishing  suggestions:  they  disappear  before 
they  are  more  than  half  formed.  And  yet  it  is 
because  signs  are  thus  substituted  for  images 
(paper  transacting  the  business  of  money)  that 
we  are  so  easily  imposed  upon  by  verbal  fal- 
lacies and  meaningless  phrases.  A  scientific 
man  of  some  eminence  was  once  taken  in  by  a 
wag,  who  gravely  asked  him  whether  he  had 
read  Bunsen's  paper  on  the  malleability  of 
light.  He  confessed  that  he  had  not  read  it: 
"  Bunsen  sent  it  to  me,  but  I  ?ve  not  had  time 
to  look  into  it." 

The  degree  in  which  each  mind  habitually 
substitutes  signs  for  images  will  be,  ceteris  pari- 
lusf  the  degree  in  which  it  is  liable  to  error. 
This  is  not  contradicted  by  the  fact  that  mathe- 
matical, astronomical,  and  physical  reasonings 
may,  when  complex,  be  carried  on  more  success- 
fully by  the  employment  of  signs;  because  in 
these  cases  the  signs  themselves  accurately  rep- 
resent the  abstractness  of  the  relations.  Such 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  47 

sciences  deal  only  with  relations,  and  not  with 
objects;  hence  greater  simplification  ensures 
greater  accuracy.  But  no  sooner  do  we  quit 
this  sphere  of  abstractions  to  enter  that  of  con- 
crete  things,  than  the  use  of  symbols  becomes  a 
source  of  weakness.  Vigorous  and  effective 
minds  habitually  deal  with  concrete  images. 
This  is  notably  the  case  with  poets  and  great 
literates.  Their  vision  is  keener  than  that  of 
other  men.  However  rapid  and  remote  their 
flight  of  thought,  it  is  a  succession  of  images, 
not  of  abstractions.  The  details  which  give  sig- 
nificance, and  which  by  us  are  seen  vaguely  as 
through  a  vanishing  mist,  are  by  them  seen  in 
sharp  outlines.  The  image  which  to  us  is  a 
mere  suggestion,  is  to  them  almost  as  vivid  as 
the  object.  And  it  is  because  they  see  vividly 
that  they  can  paint  effectively. 

Most  readers  will  recognise  this  to  be  true  of 
poets,  but  will  doubt  its  application  to  philoso- 
phers because  imperfect  psychology  and  un- 
scientific criticism  have  disguised  the  identity 
of  intellectual  processes  until  it  has  become  a 
paradox  to  say  that  imagination  is  not  less  in- 
dispensable to  the  philosopher  than  to  the  poet. 
The  paradox  falls  directly  we  restate  the  propo- 
sition thus:  both  poet  and  philosopher  draw 


48  Success  in  Literature. 

their  power  from  the  energy  of  their  mental 
vision — an  energy  which  disengages  the  mind 
from  the  somnolence  of  habit  and  from  the  pres- 
sure of  obtrusive  sensations.  In  general  men 
are  passive  under  Sense  and  the  routine  of 
habitual  inferences.  They  are  unable  to  free 
themselves  from  the  importunities  of  the  appa- 
rent facts  and  apparent  relations  which  solicit 
their  attention;  and  when  they  make  room 
for  unapparent  facts,  it  is  only  for  those 
which  are  familiar  to  their  minds.  Hence 
they  can  see  little  more  than  what  they 
have  been  taught  to  see;  they  can  only 
think  what  they  have  been  taught  to  think. 
I  For  independent  vision,  and  original  con- 
ception, we  must  go  to  children  and  men 
of  genius.  The  spontaneity  of  the  one  is  the 
power  of  the  other.  Ordinary  men  live  among 
marvels  and  feel  no  wonder,  grow  familiar  with 
objects  and  learn  nothing  new  about  them. 
Then  comes  an  independent  mind  which  sees; 
and  it  surprises  us  to  find  how  servile  we  have 
been  to  habit  and  opinion,  how  blind  to  what 
we  also  might  have  seen,  had  we  used  our  eyes. 
The  link,  'so  long  hidden,  has  now  been  made 
visible  to  us.  We  hasten  to  make  it  visible  to 
others.  But  the  flash  of  light  which  revealed 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  49 

that  obscured  object  does  not  help  us  to  discover 
others.  Darkness  still  conceals  much  that  we 
do  not  even  suspect.  We  continue  our  routine. 
We  always  think  our  views  correct  and  com- 
plete; if  we  thought  otherwise  they  would  cease 
to  be  our  views;  and  when  the  man  of  keener 
insight  discloses  our  error,  and  reveals  relations 
hitherto  unsuspected,  we  learn  to  see  with  his 
eyes  and  exclaim :  "  Now  surely  we  have  got 
the  truth/' 

III. 

A  child  is  playing  with  a  piece  of  paper  and 
brings  it  near  the  flame  of  a  candle;  another 
child  looks  on.  Both  are  completely  absorbed 
by  the  objects,  both  are  ignorant  or  oblivious  of 
the  relation  between  the  combustible  object  and 
the  flame:  a  relation  which  becomes  apparent 
only  when  the  paper  is  alight.  What  is  called 
the  thoughtlessness  of  childhood  prevents  their 
seeing  this  unapparent  fact;  it  is  a  fact  which 
has  not  been  sufficiently  impressed  upon  their 
experience  so  as  to  form  an  indissoluble  element 
in  their  conception  of  the  two  in  juxtaposition. 
Whereas  in  the  mind  of  the  nurse  this  relation 
is  so  vividly  impressed  that  no  sooner  does  the 
paper  approach  the  flame  than  the  unapparent 


50  Success  in  Literature. 

fact  becomes  almost  as  visible  as  the  objects, 
and  a  warning  is  given.  She  sees  what  the 
children  do  not,  or  cannot  see.  It  has  become 
part  of  her  organised  experience. 

The  superiority  of  one  mind  over  another 
depends  on  the  rapidity  with  which  experiences 
are  thus  organised.  The  superiority  may  be 
general  or  special:  it  may  manifest  itself  in  a 
power  of  assimilating  very  various  experiences, 
so  as  to  have  manifold  relations  familiar  to  it, 
or  in  a  power  of  assimilating  very  special  rela- 
tions, so  as  to  constitute  a  distinctive  aptitude 
for  one  branch  of  art  or  science.  The  experi- 

xXence  which  is  thus  organised  must  of  course 
have  been  originally  a  direct  object  of  conscious- 

\  ness,  either  as  an  impressive  fact  or  impressive 
inference.  Unless  the  paper  had  been  seen  to 
burn,  no  one  could  know  that  contact  with  flame 
would  consume  it.  By  a  vivid  remembrance  the 
experience  of  the  past  is  made  available  to  the 
present,  so  that  we  do  not  need  actually  to  burn 
paper  once  more, — we  see  the  relation  mentally. 
In  like  manner  Newton  did  not  need  to_  go 
through  the  demonstrations  of  many  complex 
problems,  they  flashed  upon  him  as  he  read  the 
propositions;  they  were  seen  by  him  in  that 
rapid  glance,  as  they  would  have  been  made 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  51 

visible  through  the  slower  process  of  demonstra- 
tion. A  good  chemist  does  not  need  to  test 
many  a  proposition  by  bringing  actual  gases  or 
acids  into  operation,  and  seeing  the  result;  he 
foresees  the  result:  his  mental  vision  of  the 
objects  and  their  properties  is  so  keen,  his  ex- 
perience is  so  organised,  that  the  result  which 
would  be  visible  in  an  experiment,  is  visible  to 
him  in  an  intuition.  A  fine  poet  has  no  need 
of  the  actual  presence  of  men  and  women  under 
the  fluctuating  impatience  of  emotion,  or  under 
the  steadfast  hopelessness  of  grief ;  he  needs  no 
setting  sun  before  his  window,  under  it  no 
sullen  sea.  These  are  all  visible,  and  their 
fluctuations  are  visible.  He  sees  the  quivering 
lip,  the  agitated  soul ;  he  hears  the  aching  cry, 
and  the  dreary  wash  of  waves  upon  the  beach. 

The  writer  who  pretends  to  instruct  us  should 
first  assure  himself  that  he  has  clearer  vision 
of  the  things  he  speaks  of, — knows  them  and 
their  qualities,  if  not  better  than  we,  at  least 
with  some  distinctive  knowledge.  Otherwise  he 
should  announce  himself  as  a  mere  echo,  a  mid- 
dleman, a  distributor.  Our  need  is  for  more 
light.  This  can  be  given  only  by  an  indepen- 
dent seer  who 

"  Adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye." 


62  Success  in  Literature. 

All  great  authors  are  seers.  "  Perhaps  if  we 
should  meet  Shakespeare,"  says  Emerson,  "we 
should  not  be  conscious  of  any  steep  inferiority ; 
no:  but  of  great  equality, — only  that  he  pos- 
sessed a  strange  skill  of  using,  of  classifying, 
his  facts,  which  we  lacked.  For,  notwithstand- 
ing our  utter  incapacity  to  produce  anything 
like  Hamlet  and  Othello,  see  the  perfect  re- 
ception this  wit,  and  immense  knowledge  of 
life,  and  liquid  eloquence  find  in  us  all."  This 
aggrandisement  of  our  common  stature  rests  on 
questionable  ground.  If  our  capacity  of  being 
moved  by  Shakspeare  discloses  a  community, 
our  incapacity  of  producing  Hamlet  no  less  dis- 
closes our  inferiority.  It  is  certain  that  could 
we  meet  Shakspeare  we  should  find  him  strik- 
ingly like  ourselves — with  the  same  faculties, 
the  same  sensibilities,  though  not  in  the  same 
degree.  The  secret  of  his  power  over  us  lies, 
of  course,  in  our  having  the  capacity  to  appreci- 
ate him.  Yet  we  seeing  him  in  the  unimpas- 
sioned  moods  of  daily  life,  it  is  more  than  prob- 
able that  we  should  see  nothing  in  him  but  what 
was  ordinary;  nay,  in  some  qualities  he  would 
seem  inferior.  Heroes  require  a  perspective. 
They  are  men  who  look  superhuman  only  when 
elevated  on  the  pedestals  of  their  achievements. 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  53 

In  ordinary  life  they  look  like  ordinary  men; 
not  that  they  are  of  the  common  mould,  but 
seem  so  because  their  uncommon  qualities  are 
not  then  called  forth.  Superiority  requires  an  \ 
occasion.  The  common  man  is  helpless  in  an 
emergency:  assailed  by  contradictory  sugges- 
tions, or  confused  by  his  incapacity,  he  cannot 
see  his  way.  The  hour  of  emergency  finds  a 
hero  calm  and  strong,  and  strong  because  calm 
and  clear-sighted;  he  sees  what  can  be  done, 
and  does  it.  This  is  often  a  thing  of  great  sim- 
plicity, so  that  we  marvel  others  did  not  see  it. 
Now  it  has  been  done,  and  proved  successful, 
many  underrate  its  value,  thinking  that  they 
also  would  have  done  precisely  the  same  thing. 
The  world  is  more  just.  It  refuses  to  men  un- 
assailed  by  the  difficulties  of  a  situation  the 
glory  they  have  not  earned.  The  world  knows 
how  easy  most  things  appear  when  they  have 
once  been  done,  We  can  all  make  the  egg  stand 
on  end  after  Columbus. 

Shakspeare,  then,  would  probably  not  im- 
press us  with  a  sense  of  our  inferiority  if  we 
were  to  meet  him  to-morrow.  Most  likely  we 
should  be  bitterly  disappointed ;  because,  having 
formed  our  conception  of  him  as  the  man  who 
wrote  Hamlet  and  Othello  we  forget  that  these 


54  Success  in  Literature. 

were  not  the  products  of  his  ordinary  moods, 
but  the  manifestations  of  his  power  at  white 
heat.  In  ordinary  moods  he  must  be  very  much 
as  ordinary  men,  and  it  is  in  these  we  meet  him. 
How  notorious  is  the  astonishment  of  friends 
and  associates  when  any  man's  achievements 
suddenly  emerge  into  renown.  "  They  could 
never  have  believed  it."  Why  should  they? 
Knowing  him  only  as  one  of  their  circle,  and 
not  being  gifted  with  the  penetration  which  dis- 
cerns a  latent  energy,  but  only  with  the 
vision  which  discerns  apparent  results,  they 
are  taken  by  surprise.  .  Nay,  so  biased  are 
we  by  superficial  judgments,  that  we  fre- 
quently ignore  the  palpable  fact  of  achieved 
excellence  simply  because  we  cannot  reconcile 
it  with  our  judgment  of  the  man  who  achieved 
it.  The  deed  has  been  done,  the  work  written, 
the  picture  painted;  it  is  before  the  world, 
and  the  world  is  ringing  with  applause. 
There  is  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  man  whose 
name  is  in  every  mouth  did  the  work;  but  be- 
cause our  personal  impressions  of  him  do  not 
correspond  with  our  conceptions  of  a  powerful 
man,  we  abate  or  withdraw  our  admiration,  and 
attribute  his  success  to  lucky  accident.  This 
blear-eyed,  taciturn,  timid  man,  whose  knowl- 
edge of  many  things  is  mainfestly  imperfect, 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  55 

whose  inaptitude  for  many  things  is  apparent, 
can  lie  be  the  creator  of  such  glorious  works? 
Can  Tie  be  the  large  and  patient  thinker,  the 
delicate  humorist,  the  impasioned  poet  ?  Nature 
seems  to  have  answered  this  question  for  us; 
yet  so  little  are  we  inclined  to  accept  Nature's 
emphatic  testimony  on  this  point,  that  few  of 
us  ever  see  without  disappointment  the  man 
whose  works  have  revealed  his  greatness. 

It  stands  to  reason  that  we  should  not  rightly 
appreciate  Shakspeare  if  we  were  to  meet  him, 
simply  because  we  should  meet  him  as  an  ordi- 
nary man,  and  not  as  the  author  of  Hamlet. 
Yet  if  we  had  a  keen  insight  we  should  detect 
even  in  his  quiet  talk  the  marks  of  an  original 
mind.  We  could  not,  of  course,  divine,  without 
evidence,  how  deep  and  clear  his  insight,  how 
mighty  his  power  over  grand  representative 
symbols,  how  prodigal  his  genius:  these  only 
could  appear  on  adequate  occasions.  But  we 
should  notice  that  he  had  an  independent  way  of  \ 
looking  at  things.  He  would  constantly  bring 
before  us  some  latent  fact,  some  unsuspected  re- 
lation, some  resemblance  between  dissimilar 
things.  We  should  feel  that  his  utterances  were 
not  echoes.  If  therefore,  in  these  moments  of 
equable  serenity,  his  mind  glancing  over  trivial 


56  Success  in  Literature. 

things  saw  them  with  great  clearness,  we  might 
infer  that  in  moments  of  intense  activity  his 
mind  gazing  steadfastly  on  important  things, 
would  see  wonderful  visions,  where  to  us  all  was 
vague  and  shifting.  During  our  quiet  walk  with 
him  across  the  fields  he  said  little,  or  little  that 
was  memorable;  but  his  eye  was  taking  in  the 
varying  forms  and  relations  of  objects,  and  slow-" 
ly  feeding  his  mind  with  images.  The  common 
hedge-row,  the  gurgling  brook,  the  waving  corn, 
the  shifting  cloud-architecture,  and  the  sloping 
uplands,  have  been  seen  by  us  a  thousand  times, 
but  they  show  us  nothing  new;  they  have  been 
seen  by  him  a  thousand  times,  and  each  time 
with  fresh  interest,  and  fresh  discovery.  If  he 
describe  that  walk  he  will  surprise  us  with  reve- 
lations :  we  can  then  and  thereafter  see  all  that 
he  points  out;  but  we  need  his  vision  to  direct 
our  own.  And  it  is  one  of  the  incalculable  in- 
fluences of  poetry  that  each  new  revelation  is 
an  education  of  the  eye  and  the  feelings.  We 
learn  to  see  and  feel  Nature  in  a  far  clearer 
and  profounder  way,  now  that  we  have  been 
taught  to  look  by  poets.  The  incurious,  un- 
impassioned  gaze  of  the  Alpine  peasant  on  the 
scenes  which  mysteriously  and  profoundly  affect 
the  cultivated  tourist,  is  the  gaze  of  one  who  has 


The  Principle  of  Vision.  57 

never  been  taught  to  look.  The  greater  sensi- 
bility of  educated  Europeans  to  influences  which 
left  even  the  poetic  Greeks  unmoved,  is  due  to 
the  directing  vision  of  successive  poets. 

The  great  difficulty  which  besets  us  all — 
Shakspeares  and  others,  but  Shakspeares  less 
than  others — is  the  difficulty  of  disengaging  the 
mind  from  the  thraldom  of  sensation  and  habit, 
and  escaping  from  the  pressure  of  objects  im- 
mediately present,  or  of  ideas  which  naturally 
emerge,  linked  together  as  they  are  by  old  as- 
sociations. We  have  to  see  anew,  to  think  anew. 
Jt  requires  great  vigor  to  escape  from  the  old 
and  spontaneously  recurrent  trains  of  thought. 
And  as  this  vigor  is  native,  not  acquired,  my 
readers  may,  perhaps,  urge  the  futility  of  ex- 
pounding with  so  much  pains  a  principle  of  suc- 
cess in  Literature  which,  however  indispensable, 
must  be  useless  as  a  guide;  they  may  object 
that  although  good  Literature  rests  on  insight, 
there  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  saying  "  unless 
a  man  have  the  requisite  insight  he  will  not 
succeed."  But  there  is  something  to  be  gained. 
In  the  first  place,  this  is  an  analytical  inquiry 
into  the  conditions  of  success:  it  aims  at  dis- 
criminating the  leading  principles  which  in- 
evitably determine  success.  In  the  second  place, 


58  Success  in  Literature. 

supposing  our  analysis  of  the  conditions  to  be 
correct,  practical  guidance  must  follow.  We 
cannot,  it  is  true,  gain  clearness  of  vision  simply 
by  recognising  its  necessity ;  but  by  recognising 
its  necessity  we  are  taught  to  seek  for  it  as  a 
primary  condition  of  success;  we  are  forced  to 
come  to  an  understanding  with  ourselves  as  to 
whether  we  have  or  have  not  a  distinct  vision 
of  the  thing  we  speak  of,  whether  we  are  seers 
or  reporters,  whether  the  ideas  and  feelings  have 
been  thought  and  felt  by  us  as  part  and  parcel 
of  our  own  individual  experience,  or  have  been 
echoed  by  us  from  the  books  and  conversation 
of  others  ?  We  can  always  ask,  are  we  painting 
farm-houses  or  fairies  because  these  are  genuine 
visions  of  our  own,  or  only  because  farm-houses 
and  fairies  have  been  successfully  painted  by 
others,  and  are  poetic  material? 

The  man  who  first  saw  an  acid  redden  a  veg- 
etable-blue, had  something  to  communicate; 
and  the  man  who  first  saw  (mentally)  that  all 
acids  redden  vegetable-blues,  had  something  to 
communicate.  But  no  man  can  do  this  again. 
In  the  course  of  his  teaching  he  may  have  fre- 
quently to  report  the  fact;  but  this  repetition 
is  not  of  much  value  unless  it  can  be  made  to 
disclose  some  new  relation.  And  so  of  other  and 


The  Principle  of   Vision.  59 

more  complex  cases.  Every  sincere  man  can 
determine  for  himself  whether  he  has  any 
authentic  tidings  to  communicate;  and  although 
no  man  can  hope  to  discover  much  that  is 
actually  new,  he  ought  to  assure  himself  that 
even  what  is  old  in  his  work  has  been  authenti- 
cated by  his  own  experience.  He  should  not 
even  speak  of  acids  reddening  vegetable-blues 
upon  mere  hearsay,  unless  he  is  speaking  figur- 
atively. All  his  facts  should  have  been  verified 
by  himself,  all  his  ideas  should  have  been 
thought  by  himself.  In  proportion  to  the  ful- 
fillment of  this  condition  will  be  his  success; 
in  proportion  to  its  nonfulfillment,  his  failure. 

Literature  in  its  vast  extent  includes  writers 
of  three  different  classes,  and  in  speaking  of 
success  we  must  always  be  understood  to  mean 
the  acceptance  each  writer  gains  in  his  own 
class;  otherwise  a  flashy  novelist  might  seem 
more  successful  than  a  profound  poet ;  a  clever 
compiler  more  successful  than  an  original  dis- 
coverer. 

The  Primary  Class  is  composed  of  the  bornl 
seers — men  who   see  for  themselves  and  who! 
originate.     These  are  poets,  philosophers,  dis- 
coverers.    The  Secondary  Class  is  composed  of 
men  less  puissant  in  faculty,  but  genuine  also 


60  Success  in  Literature. 

in  their  way,  who  travel  along  the  paths  opened 
by  the  great  originators,  and  also  point  out 
many  a  side-path  and  shorter  cut.  They  repro- 
duce and  vary  the  materials  furnished  by  others, 
but  they  do  this,  not  as  echoes  only,  they  authen- 
ticate their  tidings,  they  take  care  to  see  what 
the  discoverers  have  taught  them  to  see,  and  in 
consequence  of  this  clear  vision  they  are  enabled 
to  arrange  and  modify  the  materials  so  as  to 
produce  new  results.  The  Primary  Class  is  com- 
posed of  men  of  genius;  the  Secondary  Class 
of  men  of  talent.  It  not  unf requently  happens, 
especially  in  philosophy  and  science,  that  the 
man  of  talent  may  confer  a  lustre  on  the  origin- 
al invention;  he  takes  it  up  a  nugget  and  lays 
it  down  a  coin.  Finally,  there  is  the  largest  class 
of  all,  comprising  the  Imitators  in  Art,  and  the 
Compilers  in  Philosophy.  These  bring  nothing 
to  the  general  stock.  They  are  sometimes  (not 
often)  useful;  but  it  is  as  cornf actors,  not  as 
corn-growers.  They  sometimes  do  good  service 
by  distributing  knowledge  where  otherwise  it 
might  never  penetrate;  but  in  general  their 
work  is  more  hurtful  than  beneficial:  hurtful, 
because  it  is  essentially  bad  work,  being  in- 
sincere work,  and  because  it  stands  in  the  way 
of  better  work. 


The  Principle  of   Vision.  61 

Even  among  Imitators  and  Compilers  there 
are  almost  infinite  degrees  of  merit  and  de- 
merit :  echoes  of  echoes  reverberating  echoes  in 
endless  succession;  compilations  of  all  degrees 
of  worth  and  worthlessness.  But,  as  will  be 
shown  hereafter,  even  in  this  lower  sphere  the 
worth  of  the  work  is  strictly  proportional  to  the 
Vision,  Sincerity,  and  Beauty;  so  that  an  imi- 
tator whose  eye  is  keen  for  the  forms  he  imitates, 
whose  speech  is  honest,  and  whose  talent  has 
grace,  will  by  these  very  virtues  rise  almost  to 
the  Secondary  Class,  and  will  secure  an  honor- 
able success. 

I  have  as  yet  said  but  little,  and  that  inci- 
dentally, of  the  part  played  by  the  Principle  of 
Vision  in  Art.  Many  readers  who  will  admit 
the  principle  in  Science  and  Philosophy,  may 
hesitate  in  extending  it  to  Art,  which,  as  they 
conceive,  draws  its  inspirations  from  the 
Imagination.  Properly  understood,  there  is  no 
discrepancy  between  the  two  opinions;  and  in 
the  next  chapter  I  shall  endeavor  to  show  how 
Imagination  is  only  another  form  of  this  very 
Principle  of  Vision  which  we  have  been  con- 
sidering. 


CHAPTER  III. 

OF  VISION   IN  ART. 

There  are  many  who  will  admit,  without  hesi- 
tation, that  in  Philosophy  what  I  have  called 
the  Principle  of  Vision  holds  an  important 
rank,  because  the  mind  must  necessarily  err  in 
its  speculations  unless  it  clearly  sees  facts  and 
relations;  but  there  are  some  who  will  hesitate 
before  admitting  the  principle  to  a  similar  rank 
in  Art,  because,  as  they  conceive,  Art  is  inde- 
pendent of  the  truth  of  facts,  and  is  swayed  by 
the  autocratic  power  of  Imagination. 

It  is  on  this  power  that  our  attention  should 
first  be  arrested;  the  more  so  because  it  is 
usually  spoken  of  in  vague  rhapsodical  lan- 
guage, with  intimations  of  its  being  something 
peculiarly  mysterious.  There  are  few  words 
more  abused.  The  artist  is  called  a  creator, 
which  in  one  sense  he  is;  and  his  creations  are 
said  to  be  produced  by  processes  wholly  unallied 
to  the  creations  of  Philosophy,  which  they  are 
not.  Hence  it  is  a  paradox  to  speak  of  the 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  63 

"Prineipia,"  as  a  creation  demanding  severe 
and  continuous  exercise  of  the  imagination ;  but 
it  is  only  a  paradox  to  those  who  have  never 
analysed  the  processes  of  artistic  and  philo- 
sophic creation. 

I  am  far  from  desiring  to  innovate  in  lan- 
guage, or  to  raise  interminable  discussions  re- 
specting the  terms  in  general  use.  Nevertheless 
we  have  here  to  deal  with  questions  that  lie 
deeper  than  mere  names.  We  have  to  examine 
processes,  and  trace,  if  possible,  the  methods  of 
intellectual  activity  pursued  in  all  branches  of 
Literature;  and  we  must  not  suffer  our  course 
to  be  obstructed  by  any  confusion  in  terms  that 
can  be  cleared  up.  We  may  respect  the  demar- 
cations established  by  usage,  but  we  must  ascer- 
tain, if  possible,  the  fundamental  affinities. 
There  is,  for  instance,  a  broad  distinction  be- 
tween Science  and  Art,  which,  so  far  from  re- 
quiring to  be  effaced,  requires  to  be  emphasised : 
it  is  that  in  Science  the  paramount  appeal  is  to 
the  Intellect — its  purpose  being  instruction;  in 
Art,  the  paramount  appeal  is  to  the  Emotions — 
its  purpose  being  pleasure.  A  work  of  Art  must 
of  course  indirectly  appeal  to  the  Intellect,  and 
a  work  of  Science  will  also  indirectly  appeal  to 
the  Feelings;  nevertheless  a  poem  on  the  stars 


64  Success  in  Literature^ 

ajid  a  treatise  on  astronomy  have  distinct  aims 
and  distinct  methods.  But  having  recognised 
the  broadly-marked  differences,  we  are  called 
upon  to  ascertain  the  underlying  resemblances. 
Logic  and  Imagination  belong  equally  to  both. 
It  is  only  because  men  have  been  attracted  by 
the  differences  that  they  have  overlooked  the 
not  less  important  affinities.  Imagination  is  an 
intellectual  process  common  to  Philosophy  and 
Art;  but  in  each  it  is  allied  with  different  pro- 
cesses, and  directed  to  different  ends;  and 
hence,  although  the  "  Principia  "  demanded  an 
imagination  of  not  less  vivid  and  sustained 
power  than  was  demanded  by  "  Othello/'  it 
would  be  very  false  psychology  to  infer  that  the 
mind  of  Newton  was  competent  to  the  creation 
of  "  Othello/'  or  the  mind  of  Shakspeare  capa- 
ble of  producing  the  "  Principia/'  They  were 
specifically  different  minds;  their  works  were 
specifically  different.  But  in  both  the  imagina- 
tion was  intensely  active.  Newton  had  a  mind 
predominately  ratiocinative :  its  movement  was 
spontaneously  towards  the  abstract  relations  of 
things.  Shakspeare  had  a  mind  predominantly 
emotive,  the  intellect  always  moving  in  alliance 
with  the  feelings,  and  spontaneously  fastening 
upon  the  concrete  facts  in  preference  to  their 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  65 

abstract  relations.  Their  mental  Vision  was 
turned  towards  images  of  .different  orders,  and 
it  moved  in  alliance  with  different  faculties;  but 
this  Vision  was  the  cardinal  quality  of  both. 
Dr.  Johnson  was  guilty  of  a  surprising  fallacy  J  _, 
in  saying  that  a  great  mathematician  might  also  'H 
be  a  great  poet :  "  Sir,  a  man  can  walk  east  as 
far  as  he  can  walk  west."  True,  but  mathe- 
matics and  poetry  do  not  differ  as  east  and  west ; 
and  he  would  hardly  assert  that  a  man  who 
could  walk  twenty  miles  could  therefore  swim 
that  distance. 

The  real  state  of  the  case  is  somewhat  ob- 
scured by  our  observing  that  many  men  of 
science,  and  some  even  eminent  as  teachers  and 
reporters,  display  but  slender  claims  to  any  un- 
usual vigor  of  imagination.  It  must  be  owned 
that  they  are  often  slightly  dull ;  and  in  matters 
of  Art  are  not  unfrequently  blockheads.  Nay, 
they  would  themselves  repel  it  as  a  slight  if  the 
epithet  "imaginative"  were  applied  to  them; 
it  would  seem  to  impugn  their  gravity,  to  cast 
doubts  upon  their  accuracy.  But  such  men  are 
the  cisterns,  not  the  fountains,  of  Science. 
They  rely  upon  the  knowledge  already  organ- 
ised; they  do  not  bring  accessions  to  the 
common  stock.  They  are  not  investigators, 


66  Success  in  Literature. 

but  imitators;  they  are  not  discoverers — 
inventors.  No  man  ever  made  a  discovery 
(he  may  have  stumbled  on  one)  without 
the  exercise  of  as  much  imagination  a^ 
employed  in  another  direction  and  in  alliance 
with  other  faculties,  would  have  gone  to  the 
creation  of  a  poem.  Every  one  who  has  seriously 
investigated  a  novel  question,  who  has  really 
interrogated  Nature  with  a  view  to  a  distinct 
answer,  will  bear  me  out  in  saying  that  it  re- 
quires intense  and  sustained  effort  of  imagina- 
tion. The  relations  of  sequence  among  the  phe- 
nomena must  be  seen;  they  are  hidden;  they 
can  only  be  seen  mentally;  a  thousand  sugges- 
tions rise  before  the  mind,  but  they  are  recog- 
nised as  pld  suggestions,  or  as  inadequate  to 
reveal  what  is  sought;  the  experiments  by  which 
the  problem  may  be  solved  have  to  be  imagined ; 
and  to  imagine  a  good  experiment  is  as  difficult 
as  to  invent  a  good  fable,  for  we  must  have  dis- 
tinctly present — in  clear  mental  vision — the 
known  qualities  and  relations  of  all  the  objects, 
and  must  see  what  will  be  the  effect  of  introduc- 
ing some  new  qualifying  agent.  If  any  one 
thinks  this  is  easy,  let  him  try  it :  the  trial  will 
teach  him  a  lesson  respecting  the  methods  of 
intellectual  activity  not  without  its  use.  Easy 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  67 

enough,  indeed,  is  the  ordinary  practice  of  ex- 
periment, which  is  either  a  mere  repetition  or 
variation  of  experiments  already  devised  (as 
ordinary  story-tellers  re-tell  the  stories  of 
others),  or  else  a  haphazard,  blundering  way  of 
bringing  phenomena  together,  to  see  what  will 
happen.  To  invent  is  another  process.  The  dis- 
coverer and  the  poet  are  inventors ;  and  they  are 
so  because  their  mental  vision  detects  the  unap- 
parent,  unsuspected  facts,  almost  as  vividly  as 
ocular  vision  rests  on  apparent  and  familiar. 

It  is  the  special  aim  of  Philosophy  to  dis- 
cover and  systematise  the  abstract  relations  of 
things ;  and  for  this  purpose  it  is  forced  to  allow 
the  things  themselves  to  drop  out  of  sight,  fixing 
attention  solely  on  the  quality  immediately  in- 
vestigated, to  the  neglect  of  all  other  qualities. 
Thus  the  philosopher,  having  to  appreciate  the 
mass,  density,  refracting  power,  or  chemical 
constitution  of  some  object,  finds  he  can  best 
appreciate  this  by  isolating  it  from  every  other 
detail.  He  abstracts  this  one  quality  from  the 
complex  bundle  of  qualities  which  constitute  the 
object,  and  he  makes  this  one  stand  for  the 
whole.  This  is  a  necessary  simplification.  If 
all  the  qualities  were  equally  present  to  his 
mind,  his  vision  would  be  perplexed  by  their 


68  Success  in  Literature. 

multiple  suggestions.  He  may  follow  out  the 
relations  of  each  in  turn,  but  he  cannot  follow 
them  out  together. 

The  aim  of  the  poet  is  very  different.  He 
wishes  to  kindle  the  emotions  by  the  suggestion 
of  objects  themselves;  and  for  this  purpose  he 
must  present  images  of  the  objects  rather  than 
of  any  single  quality.  It  is  true  that  he  also 
must  exercise  a  power  of  abstraction  and  selec- 
tion. He  cannot  without  confusion  present  all 
the  details.  And  it  is  here  that  the  fine  selective 
instinct  of  the  true  artist  shows  itself,  in  know- 
ing what  details  to  present  and  what  to  omit. 
Observe  this :  the  abstraction  of  the  philosopher 
is  meant  to  keep  the  object  itself,  with  its  per- 
turbing suggestions,  out  of  sight,  allowing  only 
one  quality  to  fill  the  field  of  vision;  whereas 
the  abstraction  of  the  poet  is  meant  to  bring  the 
object  itself  into  more  vivid  relief,  to  make  it 
visible  by  means  of  the  selected  qualities.  In 
other  words,  the  one  aims  at  abstract  symbols, 
the  other  at  picturesque  effects.  The  one  can 
carry  on  his  deductions  by  the  aid  of  colorless 
signs,  x  or  y.  The  other  appeals  to  the  emotions 
through  the  symbols  which  will  most  vividly  ex- 
press the  real  objects  in  their  relations  to  our 
sensibilities. 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  69 

Imagination  is  obviously  active  in  both. 
From  known  facts  the  philosopher  infers  the 
facts  that  are  unapparent.  He  does  so  by  an 
effort  of  imagination  (hypothesis)  which  has  to 
be  subjected  to  verification:  he  makes  a  mental 
picture  of  the  unapparent  fact,  and  then  sets 
about  to  prove  that  his  picture  does  in  some  way 
correspond  with  the  reality.  The  correctness  of 
his 'hypothesis  and  verification  must  depend  on 
the  clearness  of  his  vision.  Were  all  the  quali- 
ties of  things  apparent  to  Sense,  there  would  be 
no  longer  any  mystery.  A  glance  would  be 
Science.  But  only  some  of  the  facts  are  visible ; 
and  it  is  because  we  see  little,  that  we  have  bo 
imagine  much.  We  see  a  feather  rising  in  the 
air,  and  a  quill,  from  the  same  bird,  sinking 
to  the  ground:  these  contradictory  reports  of 
sense  lead  the  mind  astray;  or  perhaps  excite 
a  desire  to  know  the  reason.  We  cannot  see, — 
we  must  imagine, — the  unapparent  facts.  Many 
mental  pictures  may  be  formed,  but  to  form 
the  one  which  corresponds  with  the  reality  re- 
quires great  sagacity  and  a  very  clear  vision  of 
known  facts.  In  trying  to  form  this  mental 
picture,  we  remember  that  when  the  air  is  re- 
moved the  feather  falls  as  rapidly  as  the  quill, 
and  thus  we  see  that  the  air  is  the  cause  of  the 


70  Success  in  Literature. 

feather's  rising;  we  mentally  see  the  air  push- 
ing under  the  feather,  and  see  it  almost  as 
plainly  as  if  the  air  were  a  visible  mass  thrust- 
ing the  feather  upwards. 

From  a  mistaken  appreciation  of  the  real  pro- 
cess, this  would  by  few  be  called  an  effort  of 
Imagination.  On  the  contrary,  some  "wild 
hypothesis  "  would  be  lauded  as  imaginative  in 
proportion  as  it  departed  from  all  suggestion  of 
experience,  i.  e.,  real  mental  vision.  To  have 
imagined  that  the  feather  rose  owing  to  its 
"  specific  lightness,"  and  that  the  quill  fell  ow- 
ing to  its  "  heaviness,"  would  to  many  appear  a 
more  decided  effort  of  the  imaginative  faculty. 
Whereas  it  is  no  effort  of  that  faculty  at  all; 
it  is  simply  naming  differently  the  facts  it  pre- 
tends to  explain.  To  imagine — to  form  an 
image — we  must  have  the  numerous  relations 
of  things  present  to  the  mind,  and  see  the  ob- 
jects in  their  actual  order.  In  this  we  are  of 
course  greatly  aided  by  the  mass  of  organised 
experience,  which  allows  us  rapidly  to  estimate 
the  relations  of  gravity  or  affinity  just  as  we 
remember  that  fire  burns  and  that  heated  bodies 
expand.  But  be  the  aid  great  or  small,  and  the 
result  victorious  or  disastrous,  the  imaginative 
process  is  always  the  same. 


Of   Vision  in  Art.  71 

There  is  a  slighter  strain  on  the  imagination 
of  the  poet,  because  of  his  greater  freedom.  He 
is  not,  like  the  philosopher,  limited  to  the 
things  which  are,  or  were.  His  vision  includes 
things  which  might  be,  and  things  which  never 
were.  The  philosopher  is  not  entitled  to  assume 
that  Nature  sympathises  with  man;  he  must 
prove  the  fact  to  be  so  if  he  intend  making  any 
use  of  it; — we  admit  no  deductions  from  un- 
proved assumptions.  But  the  poet  is  at  perfect 
liberty  to  assume  this ;  and  having  done  so,  he 
paints  what  would  be  the  manifestations  of  this 
sympathy.  The  naturalist  who  should  describe 
a  hippogriff  would  incur  the  laughing  scorn  of 
Europe;  but  the  poet  feigns  its  existence,  and 
all  Europe  is  delighted  when  it  rises  with 
Astolfo  in  the  air.  We  never  pause  to  ask  fc 
poet  whether  such  an  animal  exists.  He  has 
seen  it,  and  we  see  it  with  his  eyes.  Talking 
trees  do  not  startle  us  in  Virgil  and  Tennyson. 
Puck  and  Titania,  Hamlet  and  Falstaff,  are  as 
true  for  us  as  Luther  and  Napoleon,  so  long 
as  we  are  in  the  realm  of  Art.  We  grant  the 
poet  a  free  privilege  because  he'  will  use  it  only  / 
for  our  pleasure.  In  Science  pleasure  is  not  / 
an  object,  and  we  give  no  licence. 


72  Success  in  Literature. 

Philosophy  and  Art  both  render  the  invisible 
visible  by  imagination.  Where  Sense  observes 
two  isolated  objects,  Imagination  discloses  two 
related  objects.  This  relation  is  the  nexus  visi- 
ble. We  had  not  seen  it  before;  it  is  apparent 
now.  Where  we  should  only  see  a  calamity,  the 
poet  makes  us  see  a  tragedy.  Where  we  could 
only  see  a  sunrise,  he  enables  us  to  see 

"  Day  like  a  mighty  river  flowing  in." 

•Imagination  is  not  the  exclusive  appanage  of 
artists,  but  belongs  in  varying  degrees  to  all 
men.  It  is  simply  the  power  of  forming  images. 
Supplying  the  energy  of  Sense  where  Sense 
cannot  reach,  it  brings  into  distinctness  the 
facts,  obscure  or  occult,  which  are  grouped 
round  an  object  or  an  idea,  but  which  are  not 
actually  present  to  Sense.  Thus,  at  the  aspect 
of  a  windmill,  the  mind  forms  images  of  many 
characteristic  facts  relating  to  it;  and  the 
kind  of  images  will  depend  very  much  on  the 
general  disposition,  or  particular  mood,  of  the 
mind  affected  by  the  object:  the  painter,  the 
poet,  and  the  moralist  will  have  different 
images  suggested  by  the  presence  of  the  wind- 
mill or  its  symbol.  There  are  indeed  sluggish 
minds  so  incapable  of  self-evolved  activity,  and 


Of   Vision  in  Art.  73 

so  dependent  on  the  immediate  suggestions  of 
Sense,  as  to  be  almost  destitute  of  the  power  of 
forming  distinct  images  beyond  the  immediate 
circle  of  sensuous  associations;  and  these  are 
rightly  named  unimaginative  minds ;  but  in  all 
minds  of  energetic  activity,  groups  and  clusters 
of  images,  many  of  them  representing  remote 
relations,  spontaneously  present  themselves  in 
conjunction  with  objects  or  their  symbols.  It 
should,  however,  be  borne  in  mind  that  Ini-  ^ 
agination  can  only  recall  what  Sense  has  pre-/ 
viously  impressed.  No  man  imagines  any  de'- 
tail  of  which  he  has  not  previously  had  direct 
or  indirect  experience.  Objects  as  fictitious  as 
mermaids  and  hippogriffs  are  made  up  from 
the  gatherings  of  Sense. 

"  Made  up  from  the  gatherings  of  Sense  "  is 
a  phrase  which  may  seem  to  imply  some 
peculiar  plastic  power  such  as  is  claimed  ex- 
clusively for  artists:  a  power  not  of  simple 
recollection,  but  of  recollection  and  recombina-  / 
tion.  Yet  this  power  belongs  also  to  philoso- 
phers. To  combine  the  half  of  a  woman  with 
the  half  of  a  fish, — to  imagine  the  union  as  an 
existing  organism, — is  not  really  a  different 
process  from  that  of  combining  the  experience 
of  a  chemical  action  with  an  electric  action,  and 


74  Success  in  Literature. 

seeing  that  the  two  are  one  existing  fact.  When 
the  .poet  hears  the  storm-cloud  muttering,  and 
sees  the  moonlight  sleeping  on  the  bank,  he 
transfers  his  experience  of  human  phenomena 
to  the  cloud  and  the  moonlight :  he  personifies, 
draws  Nature  within  the  circle  of  emotion,  and 
is  called  a  poet.  When  the  philosopher  sees 
electricity  in  the  storm-cloud,  and  sees  the  sun- 
light stimulating  vegetable  growth,  he  transfers 
his  experience  of  physical  phenomena  to  these 
objects,  and  draws  within  the  circle  of  Law 
phenomena  which  hitherto  have  been  unclassi- 
fied. Obviously  the  imagination  has  been  as 
active  in  the  one  case  as  in  the  other  the  differ- 
entia lying  in  the  purposes  of  the  two,  and  in 
the  general  constitution  of  the  two  minds. 

It  has  been  noted  that  there  is  less  strain  on 
the  imagination  of  the  poet;  but  even  his 
greater  freedom  is  not  altogether  disengaged 
from  the  necessity  of  verification;  his  images 
must  have  at  least  subjective  truth;  if  they  do 
not  accurately  correspond  with  objective  reali- 
ties, they  must  correspond  with  our  sense  of 
congruity.  No  poet  is  allowed  the  licence  of 
creating  images  inconsistent  with  our  concep- 
tions. If  he  said  the  moonlight  burnt  the 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  75 

bank,  we  should  reject  the  image  as  untrue,  in- 
consistent with  our  conceptions  of  moonlight; 
whereas  the  gentle  repose  of  the  moonlight  on 
the  bank  readily  associates  itself  with  images 
of  sleep. 

The  often  mooted  question,  What  is  Imagina-  jj 
tion?  thus  receives  a  very  clear  and  definite 
answer.  It  is  the  power  of  forming  images; 
it  reinstates,  in  a  visible  group,  those  objects 
which  are  invisible,  either  'from  absence  or  from 
imperfection  of  our  senses.  That  is  its  generic 
character.  Its  specific  character,  which  marks 
it  off  from  Memory,  and  which  is  derived  from 
the  powers  of  selection  and  recombination,  will 
be  expounded  further  on.  Here  I  only  touch 
upon  its  chief  characteristic,  in  order  to  disen- 
gage the  term  from  that  mysteriousness  which 
writers  have  usually  assigned  to  it,  thereby  ren- 
dering philosophic  criticism  impossible,  Thus 
disengaged,  it  may  be  used  with  more  certainty 
in  an  attempt  to  estimate  the  imaginative 
power  of  various  works. 

Hitherto  the  amount  of  that  power  has  been 
too  frequently  estimated  according  to  the  ex-^ 
tent  of  departure  from  ordinary  experience  in 
the  images  selected.     Nineteen  out  of  twenty 
would  unhesitatingly  declare  that  a  hippogrifl 


76  Success  in  Literature. 

was  a  greater  effort  of  imagination  than  a  well- 
conceived  human  character;  a  Peri  than  a 
woman ;  Puck  or  Titania  than  Falstaff  or  Imo- 
gen. A  description  of  Paradise  extremely  un- 
like any  known  garden  must,  it  is  thought, 
necessarily  be  more  imaginative  than  the  de- 
scription of  a  quiet  rural  nook.  It  may  be 
more  imaginative;  it  may  be  less  so.  All  de- 
pends upon  the  mind  of  the  poet.  To  suppose 
that  it  must,  because  of  its  departure  from  or- 
dinary experience,  is  a  serious  error.  The 
muscular  effort  required  to  draw  a  cheque  for 
a  thousand  pounds  might  as  reasonably  be 
thought  greater  than  that  required  for  a  cheque 
for  five  pounds;  and  much  as  the  one  cheque 
seems  to  surpass  the  other  in  value,  the  result 
of  presenting  both  to  the  bankers  may  show  that 
the  more  modest  cheque  is  worth  its  full  five 
pounds,  whereas  the  other  is  only  so  much  waste 
paper.  The  description  of  Paradise  may  be  a 
glittering  farrago;  the  description  of  the  land- 
scape may  be  full  of  sweet  rural  images:  the 
one  having  a  glare  of  gaslight  and  Vauxhall 
splendor;  the  other  having  the  scent  of  new- 
mown  hay. 

A  work  is  imaginative  in  virtue  of  the  power 
of  its  images  over  our  emotions;  not  in  virtue 
of  any  rarity  or  surprisingness  in  the  images 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  77 

themselves.  A  Madonna  and  Child  by  Fra  An- 
gelico  is  more  powerful  over  our  emotions  tha: 
a  Crucifixion  by  a  vulgar  artist;  a  beggar-boy - 
by  Murillo  is  more  imaginative  than  an  As-  j 
sumption  by  the  same  painter ;  but  the  Assump-  \ 
tion  by  Titian  displays  far  greater  imagination^ 
than  either.  We  must  guard  against  the  natu- 
ral tendency  to  attribute  to  the  artist  what  is 
entirely  due  to  accidental  conditions.  A  tropic- 
al scene,  luxuriant  with  tangled  overgrowth 
and  impressive  in  the  grandeur  of  its  phenom- 
ena, may  more  decisively  arrest  our  attention 
than  an  English  landscape  with  its  green  corn- 
lands  and  plenteous  homesteads.  But  this  su- 
periority of  interest  is  no  proof  of  the  artist's 
superior  imagination;  and  by  a  spectator  fa- 
miliar with  the  tropics,  greater  interest  may  be 
felt  in  the  English  landscape,  because  its  im- 
ages may  more  forcibly  arrest  his  attention  by 
their  novelty.  And  were  this  not  so,  were  the 
inalienable  impressiveness  of  tropical  scenery 
always  to  give  the  poet  who  described  it 
a  superiority  in  effect,  this  would  not  prove 
the  superiority  of  his  imagination.  For 
either  he  has  been  familiar  with  such  scenes, 
and  imagines  them  just  as  the  other  poet 
imagines  his  English  landscape — by  an  effort 


78  Success  in  Literature. 

of  mental  vision,  calling  up  the  absent 
objects;  or  he  has  merely  read  the  de- 
scriptions of  others,  and  from  these  makes 
up  his  picture.  It  is  the  same  with  his 
rival,  who  also  recalls  and  recombines.  Fool- 
ish critics  often  betray  their  ignorance  by  say- 
ing that  a  painter  or  a  writer  "  only  copies  what 
he  has  seen,  or  puts  down  what  he  has  known." 
They  forget  that  no  man  imagines  what  he  has 
not  seen  or  known,  and  that  it  is  in  the  selec- 
tion of  the  characteristic  details  that  the  artistic 
power  is  manifested.  Those  who  suppose  that 
familiarity  with  scenes  or  characters  enables  a 
painter  or  a  novelist  to  "  copy  "  them  with  ar- 
tistic effect,  forget  the  well-known  fact  that 
the  vast  majority  of  men  are  painfully  incompe- 
tent to  avail  themselves  of  this  familiarity,  and 
cannot  form  vivid  pictures  even  to  themselves 
of  scenes  in  which  they  pass  their  daily  lives; 
and  if  they  could  imagine  these,  they  would 
need  the  delicate  selective  instinct  to  guide 
them  in  the  admission  and  omission  of  details, 
as  well  as  in  the  grouping  of  the  images.  Let 
any  one  try  to  "  copy  "  the  wife  or  brother  he 
knows  so  well, — to  make  a  human  image  which 
shall  speak  and  act  so  as  to  impress  strangers 
with  a  belief  in  its  truth, — and  he  will  then  see 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  79 

that  the  much-despised  reliance  on  actual  ex- 
perience is  not  the  mechanical  procedure  it  is 
believed  to  be.  When  Scott  drew  Saladin  and 
Coeur  de  Lion  he  did  not  really  display  more 
imaginative  power  than  when  he  drew  the 
Mucklebaekits,  although  the  majority  of  read- 
ers would  suppose  that  the  one  demanded  a 
great  effort  of  imagination,  whereas  the  other 
formed  part  of  his  familiar  experiences  of 
Scottish  life.  The  mistake  here  lies  in  con- 
founding the  sources  from  which  the  materials 
were  derived  with  the  plastic  power  of  forming 
these  materials  into  images.  More  conscious 
effort  may  have  been  devoted  to  the  collection 
of  the  materials  in  the  one  case  than  in  the 
other,  but  that  this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
imaginative  power  employed  may  readily  be 
proved  by  an  analysis  of  the  intellectual  pro- 
cesses of  composition.  Scott  had  often  been  in 
fishermen's  cottages  and  heard  them  talk ;  from 
the  registered  experience  of  a  thousand  details 
relating  to  the  life  of  the  poor,  their  feelings 
and  their  thoughts,  he  gained  that  material 
upon  which  his  imagination  could  work;  in  the 
case  of  Saladin  and  Coeur  de  Lion  he  had  to 
gain  these  principally  through  books  and  his 
general  experience  of  life;  and  the  images  he 


80  Success  in  Literature. 

formed — the  vision  he  had  of  Mucklebackit  and 
Saladin — must  be  set  down  to  his  artistic  fac- 
ulty, not  to  his  experience  or  erudition. 

It  has  been  well  said  by  a  very  imaginative 
writer,  that  "when  a  poet  floats  in  the  empy- 
rean, and  only  takes  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the 
earth,  some  people  accept  the  mere  fact  of  his 
soaring  for  sublimity,  and  mistake  his  dim  vis- 
ion of  earth  for  proximity  to  heaven."  And  in 
like  manner,  when  a  thinker  frees  himself  from 
all  the  trammels  of  fact,  and  propounds  a  "bold 
hypothesis,"  people  mistake  the  vagabond  er- 
ratic flights  of  guessing  for  a  higher  range  of 
philosophic  power.  In  truth,  the  imagination 
is  most  tasked  when  it  has  to  paint  pictures 
which  shall  withstand  the  silent  criticism  of 
general  experience,  and  to  frame  hypotheses 
which  shall  withstand  the  confrontation  with 
facts.  I  cannot  here  enter  into  the  interesting 
question  of  Realism  and  Idealism  in  Art,  whicli 
must  be  debated  in  a  future  chapter;  but  I  wish 
to  call  special  attention  to  the  psychological 
fact,  that  fairies  and  demons,  remote  as  they 
are  from  experience,  are  not  created  by  a  more 
vigorous  effort  of  imagination  than  milk  maids 
and  poachers.  The  intensity  of  vision  in  the 
artist  and  of  vividness  in  his  creations  are  the 
sole  tests  of  his  imaginative  power. 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  81 


II. 

If  this  brief  exposition  has  carried  the  read- 
er's assent,  he  will  readily  apply  the  principle, 
and  recognise  that  an  artist  produces  an  effect 
in  virtue  of  the  distinctness  with  which  he 
sees  the  objects  he  represents,  seeing  them  not 
vaguely  as  in  vanishing  apparitions,  but  stead- 
ily, and  in  their  most  characteristic  relations. 
To  this  Vision  he  adds  artistic  skill  with  which 
to  make  us  see.  He  may  have  clear  concep- 
tions, yet  fail  to  make  them  clear  to  us :  in  this 
case  he  has  imagination,  but  is  not  an  artist. 
Without  clear  Vision  no  skill  can  avail.  Im- 
perfect Vision  necessitates  imperfect  represen- 
tation ;  words  take  the  place  of  ideas. 

In   Young's   "Night   Thoughts"   there   are  ] 
many  examples  of  the  pseudo-imaginative,  be- 
traying an  utter  want  of  steady  Vision.     Here 
is  one : — 

11  His  hand  the  good  man  fixes  on  the  skies, 
And  bids  earth  roll,  nor  feels  her  idle  whirl." 

"  Pause  for  a  moment,"  remarks  a  critic,  "  to 
realise  the  image,  and  the  monstrous  absurdity 
of  a  man's  grasping  the  skies,  and  hanging  ha- 
bitually suspended  there,  while  he  contemptu- 
ously bids  the  earth  roll,  warns  you  that  no 


82  Success  in  Literature. 

genuine  feeling  could  have  suggested  so  unnat- 
ural a  conception/**  It  is  obvious  that  if 
Young  had  imagined  the  position  he  assigned 
to  the  good  man  he  would  have  seen  its  ab- 
surdity; instead  of  imagining,  he  allowed  the 
vague  transient  suggestion  of  half-nascent 
images  to  shape  themselves  in  verse. 

ISTow  compare  with  this  a  passage  in  which 
imagination  is  really  active.  Wordsworth  re- 
calls how — 

"In  November  days, 

When  vapors  rolling  down  the  valleys  made 
A  lonely  scene  more  lonesome;  among  woods 
At  noon;  and  mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights, 
When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  lake, 
Beneath  the  gloomy  hills,  homeward  I  went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine." 

There  is  nothing  very  grand  or  impressive  in 
this  passage,  and  therefore  it  is  a  better  illus- 
tration for  my  purpose.  Note  how  happily  the 
one  image,  out  of  a  thousand  possible  images 
by  which  November  might  be  characterised,  is 
chosen  to  call  up  in  us  the  feeling  of  the  lonely 
scene;  and  with  what  delicate  selection  the 
calm  of  summer  nights,  the  "  trembling  lake  " 
(an  image  in  an  epithet),  and  the  gloomy  hills, 
are  brought  before  us.  His  boyhood  might 
have  furnished  him  with  a  hundred  different 

^Westminster  Review,  No.  cxxxi,  p.  27. 


Of   Vision  in  Art.  83 

pictures,  each  as  distinct  as  this;  the  power  is 
shown  in  selecting  this  one — painting  it  so  viv- 
idly. He  continues: — 

"  'Twas  mine  among  the  fields  both  day  and  night 
And  by  the  waters  all  the  summer  long. 
And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a  mile, 
The  cottage- windows  through  the  twilight  blazed, 
I  heeded  not  the  summons:  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us;  for  me 
It  was  a  time  of  rapture!    Clear  and  loud 
The  village-clock  tolled  six— I  wheeled  about, 
Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 
That  cares  not  for  his  home.— All  shod  with  steel 
i  We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice,  in  games 

Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 
And  woodland  pleasures, — the  resounding  horn, 
The  pack  loud-chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare." 

There  is  nothing  very  felicitous  in  these 
lines ;  yet  even  here  the  poet,  if  languid,  is  never 
false.  As  he  proceeds  the  vision  brightens,  and 
the  verse  becomes  instinct  with  life :  — 

"  So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew 
And  not  a  voice  was  idle:  with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud; 
The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron;  while  the  d'Stant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  all  n  sound 
Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed  while  the  stars, 
Eastward,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

"JNot  seldom  from  the  uproar  f  retired 
Into  a  silent  bay,  or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng, 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star; 
Image,  that,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain:  and  oftentimes, 
When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 
And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  a'  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels. 
Stopped  short;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me— even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  dirunal  round! 
Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train, 
Feebler  and  feebler,  and  1  stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a  summer  sea." 


84  Success  in  Literature. 

Every  poetical  reader  will  feel  delight  in  the 
accuracy  with  which  the  details  are  painted,  and 
the  marvellous  clearness  with  which  the  whole 
scene  is  imagined,  both  in  its  objective  and  sub- 
jective relations,  i.  e.,  both  in  the  objects  seen 
and  the  emotions  they  suggest. 

What  the  majority  of  modern  verse  writers 
call  "  imagery,"  is  not  the  product  of  imagina- 
tion, but  a  restless  pursuit  of  comparison,  and 
a  lax  use  of  language.  Instead  of  presenting 
us  with  an  image  of  the  object,  they  present  us 
with  something  which  they  tell  us  is  like  the 
object — which  it  rarely  is.  The  thing  itself 
has  no  clear  significance  to  them,  it  is  only  a 
text  for  the  display  of  their  ingenuity.  If, 
however,  we  turn  from  poetasters  to  poets,  we 
see  great  accuracy  in  depicting  the  things  them- 
selves or  their  suggestions,  so  that  we  may  be 
certain  the  things  presented  themselves  in  the 
field  of  the  poet's  vision,  and  were  painted  be- 
cause seen.  The  images  arose  with  sudden  vi- 
vacity, or  were  detained  long  enough  to  enable 
their  characters  to  be  seized.  It  is  this  power 
of  detention  to  which  I  would  call  particular 
notice,  because  a  valuable  practical  lesson  may 
be  learned  through  a  proper  estimate  of  it.  If 
clear  Vision  be  indispensable  to  success  in  Art, 


Of   Vision  in  Art.  85 

all  means  of  securing  that  clearness  should  be 
sought.  Xow  one  means  is  that  of  detaining 
an  image  long  enough  before  the  mind  to  allow 
of  its  being  seen  in  all  its  characteristics.  The 
explanation  Newton  gave  of  his  discovery  of  the 
great  law,  points  in  this  direction;  it  was  by  al- 
ways thinking  of  the  subject,  by  keeping  it  con- 
stantly before  his  mind,  that  he  finally  saw  the 
truth.  Artists  brood  over  the  chaos  of  their 
suggestions,  and  thus  shape  them  into  creations. 
Try  and  form  a  picture  in  your  own  mind  of 
your  early  skating  experience.  It  may  be  that 
the  scene  only  comes  back  upon  you  in  shifting 
outlines,  you  recall  the  general  facts,  and  some 
few  particulars  are  vivid,  but  the  greater  part 
of  the  details  vanish  again  before  they  can  as- 
sume decisive  shape;  they  are  but  half  nascent, 
or  die  as  soon  as  born:  a  wave  of  recollection 
washes  over  the  mind,  but  it  quickly  retires, 
leaving  no  trace  behind.  This  is  the  common 
experience,  Or  it  may  be  that  the  whole  scene 
flashes  upon  you  with  peculiar  vividness,  so  that 
you  see,  almost  as  in  actual  presence,  all  the 
leading  characteristics  of  the  picture.  Words- 
worth  may  have  seen  his  early  days  in  a  suc- 
cession of  vivid  flashes,  or  he  may  have  attained 
to  his  distinctness  of  vision  by  a  steadfast  con- 
tinuity of  effort,  in  which  what  at  first  was 


86  Success  in  Literature. 

vague  became  slowly  definite  as  he  gazed.  It  is 
certain  that  only  a  very  imaginative  mind  could 
have  seen  such  details  as  he  has  gathered  to- 
gether in  the  lines  describing  how  he 

"  Cut  across  the  reflex  of  a  star; 
Image,  that,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain." 

The  whole  description  may  have  been  writ- 
ten with  great  rapidity,  or  with  anxious  and 
tentative  labor:  the  memories  of  boyish  days 
may  have  been  kindled  with  a  sudden  illumina- 
tion, or  they  may  have  grown  slowly  into 
the  requisite  distinctness,  detail  after  detail 
emerging  from  the  general  obscurity,  like  the 
appearing  stars  at  night.  But  whether  the  poet 
felt  his  way  to  images  and  epithets,  rapidly  or 
slowly,  is  unimportant ;  we  have  to  do  only  with 
the  result ;  and  the  result  implies,  as  an  absolute 
condition,  that  the  images  were  distinct.  Only 
thus  could  they  serve  the  purposes  of  poetry, 
which  must  arouse  in  us  memories  of  similar 
scenes,  and  kindle  emotions  of  pleasurable  expe- 
rience. 

III. 

Having  cited  an  example  of  bad  writing  con- 
sequent on  imperfect  Vision,  and  an  example 
of  good  writing  consequent  on  accurate  Vision, 
I  might  consider  that  enough  had  been  done 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  87 

for  the  immediate  purpose  of  the  present  chap- 
ter; the  many  other  illustrations  which  the 
Principle  of  Vision  would  require  before  it 
could  be  considered  as  adequately  expounded, 
I  must  defer  till  I  come  to  treat  of  the  applica- 
tion of  principles.  But  before  closing  this 
chapter  it  may  be  needful  to  examine  some  ar- 
guments which  have  a  contrary  tendency,  and 
imply,  or  seem  to  imply,  that  distinctness  of 
Vision  is  very  far  from  necessary. 

At  the  outset  we  must  come  to  an  under- 
standing as  to  this  word  "image,"  and  en- 
deavor to  free  the  word  "  vision "  from  all 
equivoqiie.  If  these  words  were  understood  lit- 
erally there  would  be  an  obvious  absurdity  in 
speaking  of  an  image  of  a  sound,  or  of  seeing 
an  emotion.  Yet  if  by  means  of  symbols  the 
effect  of  a  sound  is  produced  in  us,  or  the  psy- 
chological state  of  any  human  being  is  rendered 
intelligible  to  us,  we  are  said  to  have  images 
of  these  things,  which  the  poet  has  imagined. 
It  is  because  the  eye  is  the  most  valued  and  in- 
tellectual of  our  senses  that  the  majority  of 
metaphors  are  borrowed  from  its  sensations. 
Language,  after  all,  is  only  the  use  of  symbols, 
and  Art  also  can  only  affect  us  through  sym- 
bols. If  a  phrase  can  summon  a  terror  resemb- 
ling that  summoned  by  the  danger  which  it  in- 


88  Success  in  Literature. 

dicates,  a  man  is  said  to  see  the  danger.  Some- 
times a  phrase  will  awaken  more  vivid  images 
of  danger  than  would  be  called  up  by  the  actual 
presence  of  the  dangerous  object;  because  the 
mind  will  more  readily  apprehend  the  symbols 
of  the  phrase  than  interpret  the  indications  of 
unassisted  sense. 

Burke,  in  his  "  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and 
Beautiful/'  lays  down  the  proposition  that  dis- 
tinctness of  imagery  is  often  injurious  to  the 
effect  of  art.  "  It  is  one  thing/'  he  says,  "  to 
make  an  idea  clear,  another  to  make  it  affecting 
to  the  imagination.  If  I  make  a  drawing  of  a 
palace,  or  a  temple,  or  a  landscape,  I  present 
a  very  clear  idea  of  those  objects;  but  then 
(allowing  for  the  effect  of  imitation,  which  is 
something)  my  picture  can  at  most  affect  only 
as  the  palace,  temple,  or  landscape,  would  have 
affected  in  the  reality.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
most  lively  and  spirited  verbal  description  I 
can  give,  raises  a  very  obscure  and  imperfect 
idea  of  such  objects ;  but  then  it  is  in  my  power 
to  raise  a  stronger  emotion  by  the  description 
than  I  could  do  by  the  best  painting.  This  ex- 
perience constantly  evinces.  The  proper  man- 
ner of  conveying  the  affections  of  the  mind 
from  one  to  another,  is  by  words;  there  is  a 
great  insufficiency  in  all  other  methods  of  com- 


Of   Vision  in  Art.  89 

munication;  and  so  far  is  a  clearness  of  im- 
agery from  being  absolutely  necessary  to  an  in- 
fluence upon  the  passions,  that  they  may  be  con- 
siderably operated  upon,  without  presenting 
any  image  at  all,  by  certain  sounds  adapted  to 
that  purpose."  If  by  image  is  meant  only  what 
the  eye  can  see,  Burke  is  undoubtedly  right. 
But  this  is  obviously  not  our  restricted  meaning 
of  the  word  when  we  speak  of  poetic  imagery; 
and  Burke's  error  becomes  apparent  when  ho 
proceeds  to  show  that  there  "  are  reasons  in  na- 
ture why  an  obscure  idea,  when  properly  con- 
veyed, should  be  more  affecting  than  the  clear.1' 
He  does  not  seem  to  have  considered  that  the 
idea  of  an  indefinite  object  can  only  be  properly 
conveyed  by  indefinite  images;  any  image  of 
Eternity  or  Death  that  pretended  to  visual  dis- 
tinctness would  be  false.  Having  overlooked 
this,  he  says,  "  We  do  not  anywhere  meet  a  more 
sublime  description  than  this  justly  celebrated 
one  of  Milton,  wherein  he  gives  the  portrait  of 
Satan  with  a  dignity  so  suitable  to  the  subject : 

"  He,  above  the  rest 
In  shape  and  gesture  proudly  eminent, 
Stood  like  a  tower.    His  form  had  not  yet  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appeared 
Less  than  archangel  ruined,  and  the  excess 
Of  glory  obscured:  as  when  the  sun  new-risen 
Looks  through  the  horizontal  misty  air 
Shorn  of  his  beams,  or,  from  behind  the  moon, 
In  dim  eclipse,  disastrous  twilight  sheds 
On  half  the  nations,  and  with  fear  of  change 
Perplexes  monarchs.' 


90  Success  in  Literature. 

Here  is  a  very  noble  picture,"  adds  Burke, 
"  and  in  what  does  this  poetical  picture  consist  ? 
In  images  of  a  tower,  an  archangel,  the  sun 
rising  through  mists,  or  in  an  eclipse,  the 
ruin  of  monarchs,  and  the  revolutions  of  king- 
doms." Instead  of  recognising  the  imagery 
here  as  the  source  of  the  power,  he  says,  "  The 
mind  is  hurried  out  of  itself  [rather  a  strange 
result !]  by  a  crowd  of  great  and  confused  im- 
ages ;  which  affect  because  they  are  crowded  and 
confused.  For,  separate  them,  and  you  lose 
much  of  the  greatness;  and  join  them,  and  you 
infallibly  lose  the  clearness."  This  is  altogether 
a  mistake.  The  images  are  vivid  enough  to  make 
us  feel  the  hovering  presence  of  an  awe-inspir- 
ing figure  having  the  height  and  firmness  of  a 
tower,  and  the  dusky  splendor  of  a  ruined  arch- 
angel. The  poet  indicates  only  that  amount  of 
concreteness  which  is  necessary  for  the  clearness 
of  the  picture, — only  the  height  and  firmness  of 
the  tower  and  the  brightness  of  the  sun  in 
eclipse.  More  concreteness  would  disturb  the 
clearness  by  calling  attention  to  irrelevant  de- 
tails. To  suppose  that  these  images  produce 
the  effect  because  they  are  crowded  and  con- 
fused (they  are  crowded  and  not  confused)  is 
to  imply  that  any  other  images  would  do 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  91 

equally  well,  if  they  were  equally  crowded. 
"  Separate  them,  and  you  lose  much  of  the 
greatness."  Quite  true :  the  image  of  the  tower 
would  want  the  splendor  of  the  sun.  But  this 
much  may  be  said  of  all  descriptions  which  pro- 
ceed upon  details.  And  so  far  from  the  im- 
pressive clearness  of  the  picture  vanishing  in 
the  crowd  of  images,  it  is  by  these  images  that 
the  clearness  is  produced:  the  details  make  it 
impressive,  and  affect  our  imagination. 

It  should  be  added  that  Burke  came  very 
near  a  true  explanation  in  the  following  pas- 
sage:— "It  will  be  difficult  to  conceive  how 
words  can  move  the  passions  which  belong  to 
real  objects  without  representing  these  objects 
clearly.  This  is  difficult  to  us,  because  we  do 
not  sufficiently  distinguish,  in  our  observations 
upon  language,  between  a  clear  expression, 
and  a  strong  expression.  *  *  *  The  former 
regards  the  understanding;  the  latter  belongs 
to  the  passions.  The  one  describes  a  thing N. 
as  it  is,  the  latter  describes  it  as  it  is  felt.  / 
Now,  as  there  is  a  moving  tone  of  voice, 
an  impassioned  countenance,  an  agitated  gest- 
ure, which  affect  independently  of  the  things 
about  which  they  are  exerted,  so  there  are 
words,  and  certain  dispositions  of  words, 


92  Success  in  Literature. 

which  being  peculiarly  devoted  to  passion- 
ate subjects,  and  always  used  by  those  who 
are  under  the  influence  of  any  passion, 
touch  and  move  us  more  than  those  which  far 
more  clearly  and  distinctly  express  the  subject- 
matter.^  Burke  here  fails  to  see  that  the  tones, 
looks,  and  gestures  are  the  intelligible  symbols 
of  passion — the  "  images  "  in  the  true  sense — 
just  as  words  are  the  intelligible  symbols  of 
ideas.  The  subject-matter  is  as  clearly  ex- 
pressed by  the  one  as  by  the  other;  for  if  the 
description  of  a  Lion  be  conveyed  in  the 
symbols  of  admiration  or  of  terror,  the  subject- 
matter  is  then  a  Lion  passionately  and  not 
zoologically  considered.  And  this  Burke  him- 
self was  led  to  admit,  for  he  adds,  "We 
yield  to  sympathy  what  we  refuse  to  de- 
scription. The  truth  is,  all  verbal  description, 
merely  as  naked  description,  though  never  so 
exact,  conveys  so  poor  and  insufficient  an 
idea  of  the  thing  described,  that  it  could  scarce- 
ly have  the  smallest  effect,  if  the  speaker 
did  not  call  in  to  his  aid  those  modes  of 
speech  that  mark  a  strong  and  lively  feeling 
in  himself.  Then,  by  the  contagion  of  our  pas- 
sions, we  catch  a  fire  already  kindled  in 
another."  This  is  very  true,  and  it  sets  clearly 


Of   Vision  in  Art.  93 

forth  the  fact  that  naked  description,  addressed 
to  the  calm  understanding,  has  a  different  sub- 
ject-matter from  description  addressed  to  the 
feelings,  and  the  symbols  by  which  it  is  made 
intelligible  must  likewise  differ.  But  this  in  no 
way  impugns  the  principle  of  Vision.  Intelli- 
gible symbols  (clear  images)  are  as  necessary  in 
one  case  as  in  the  other. 

IV. 

By  reducing  imagination  to  the  power  of 
forming  images,  and  by  insisting  that  no  image 
can  be  formed  except  out  of  the  elements  fur- 
nished by  experience,  I  do  not  mean  to  con- 
found imagination  with  memory;  indeed,  the 
frequent  occurrence  of  great  strength  of  mem- 
ory with  comparative  feebleness  of  imagination, 
would  suffice  to  warn  us  against  such  a  con- 
clusion. 

Its  specific  character,  that  which  marks  it  off 
from  simple  memory,  is  its  tendency  to  selec-  \ 
tion,  abstraction,  and  recombination.  Memory, 
as  passive,  simply  recalls  previous  experiences 
of  objects  and  emotions;  from  these,  imagina- 
tion, as  an  active  faculty,  selects  the  elements 
which  vividly  symbolise  the  objects  or  emotions, 


94  Success  in  Literature. 

and  either  by  a  process  of  abstraction  allows 
these  to  do  duty  for  the  wholes,  or  else  by  a 
process  of  recombination  creates  new  objects 
and  new  relations  in  which  the  objects  stand  to 
us  or  to  each  other  (invention),  and  the  result 
is  an  image  of  great  vividness,  which  has  per- 
haps no  corresponding  reality  in  the  external 
world. 

Minds  differ  in  the  vividness  with  which  they 
recall  the  elements  of  previous  experience,  and 
mentally  see  the  absent  objects;  they  differ  also 
in  the  aptitudes  for  selection,  abstraction,  and 
recombination :  the  fine  selective  instinct  of  the 
artist,  which  makes  him  fasten  upon  the  details 
which  will  most  powerfully  affect  us,  without 
any  disturbance  of  the  harmony  of  the  general 
impression,  does  not  depend  solely  upon  the  viv- 
idness of  his  memory  and  the  clearness  with 
which  the  objects  are  seen,  but  depends  also 
upon  very  complex  and  peculiar  conditions  of 
sympathy  which  we  call  genius.  Hence  we  find 
one  man  remembering  a  multitude  of  details, 
with  a  memory  so  vivid  that  it  almost  amounts 
at  times  to  hallucination,  yet  without  any  artis- 
tic power;  and  we  may  find  men — Blake  was 
one — with  an  imagination  of  unusual  activity, 
who  are  nevertheless  incapable,  from  deficient 


Of   Vision  in  Art.  95 

sympathy,  of  seizing  upon  those  symbols  which 
will  most  affect  us.  Our  native  susceptibilities 
and  acquired  tastes  determine  which  of  the 
many  qualities  in  an  object  shall  most  impress 
us,  and  be  most  clearly  recalled.  One  man  re- 
members the  combustible  properties  of  a  sub- 
stance, which  to  another  is  memorable  for  its 
polarising  property;  to  one  man  a  stream  is  so 
much  water-power,  to  another  a  rendezvous  for 
lovers. 

In  the  close  of  the  last  paragraph  we  came 
face  to  face  with  the  great  difficulty  which  con- 
stantly arrests  speculation  on  these  matters—- 
the existence  of  special  aptitudes  vaguely  char- 
acterised as  genius.  These  are  obviously 
incommunicable.  No  recipe  can  be  given  for 
genius.  No  man  can  be  taught  how  to  exercise 
the  power  of  imagination.  But  he  can  be 
taught  how  to  aid  it,  and  how  to  assure  himself 
whether  he  is  using  it  or  not.  Having  once 
laid  hold  of  the  Principle  of  Vision  as  a  funda- 
mental principle  of  Art,  he  can  always  thus  far 
apply  it,  that  he  can  assure  himself  whether  he 
does  or  does  not  distinctly  see  the  cottage  he  is 
describing,  the  rivulet  that  is  gurgling  through 
his  verses,  or  the  character  he  is  painting;  he 
can  assure  himself  whether  he  hears  the  voice 


96  Success  in  Literature. 

of  the  speakers,  and  feels  that  what  they  say 
is  true  to  their  natures;  he  can  assure  himself 
whether  he  sees,  as  in  actual  experience,  the 
emotion  he  is  depicting;  and  he  will  know  that 
if  he  does  not  see  these  things  he  must  wait  un- 
til he  can,  or  he  will  paint  them  ineffectively. 
With  distinct  Vision  he  will  be  able  to  make 
the  best  use  of  his  powers  of  expression;  and 
the  most  splendid  powers  of  expression  will  not 
avail  him  if  his  Vision  be  indistinct.  This  is 
true  of  objects  that  never  were  seen  by  the  eye, 
that  never  could  be  seen.  It  is  as  true  of  what 
are  called  the  highest  flights  of  imagination  as 
of  the  lowest  flights.  The  mind  must  see  the 
angel  or  the  demon,  the  hippogriff  or  centaur, 
the  pixie  or  the  mermaid. 

Kuskin  notices  how  repeatedly  Turner, — the 
most  imaginative  of  landscape  painters, — "  in- 
troduced into  his  pictures,  after  a  lapse  of  many 
years,  memories  of  something,  which,  however 
small  and  unimportant,  had  struck  him  in  his 
earlier  studies."  He  believes  that  all  Turner's 
"  composition  "  was  an  arrangement  of  remem- 
brances summoned  just  as  they  were  wanted, 
and  each  in  its  fittest  place.  His  vision  was 
primarily  composed  of  strong  memory  of  the 
place  itself,  and  secondarily  of  memories  of 


Of   Vision  in  Art.  97 

other  places  associated  in  a  harmonious,  helpful 
way  with  the  now  central  thought.  He  recalled 
and  selected. 

I  am  prepared  to  hear  of  many  readers,  espe- 
cially young  readers,  protesting  against  the  doc- 
trine of  this  chapter  as  prosaic.  They  have 
been  so  long  accustomed  to  consider  imagina- 
tion as  peculiarly  distinguished  by  its  disdain 
of  reality,  and  Invention  as  only  admirable 
when  its  products  are  not  simply  new  by  selec- 
tion and  arrangement,  but  new  in  material, 
that  they  will  reject  the  idea  of  involuntary  re- 
membrance of  something  originally  experienced 
as  the  basis  of  all  Art.  Kuskin  says  of  great 
artists,  "  Imagine  all  that  any  of  these  men  had 
seen  or  heard  in  the  whole  course  of  their  lives, 
laid  up  accurately  in  their  memories  as  in  vast 
storehouses,  extending,  with  the  poets  even  to 
the  slightest  intonations  of  syllables  heard  in 
the  beginning  of  their  lives,  and  with  painters, 
down  to  the  minute  folds  of  drapery,  and  shapes 
of  leaves  or  stones ;  and  over  all  this  unindexed 
and  immeasurable  mass  of  treasure,  the  imagin- 
ation brooding  and  wandering,  but  dream- 
gifted,  so  as  to  summon  at  any  moment  exactly 
such  groups  of  ideas  as  shall  justly  fit  each 
other/5  This  is  the  explanation  of  their  gen- 
ius, as  far  as  it  can  be  explained. 


98  Success  in  Literature. 

Genius  is  rarely  able  to  give  any  account  of 
its  own  processes.  But  those  who  have  had  am- 
ple opportunities  of  intimately  knowing  the 
growth  of  works  in  the  minds  of  artists,  will 
bear  me  out  in  saying  that  a  vivid  memory  sup- 
plies the  elements  from  a  thousand  different 
sources,  most  of  which  are  quite  beyond  the 
power  of  localisation, — the  experience  of  yester- 
day being  strangely  intermingled  with  the  dim 
suggestions  of  early  years,  the  tones  heard  in 
childhood  sounding  through  the  diapason  of 
sorrowing  maturity ;  and  all  these  kaleidoscopic 
fragments  are  recomposed  into  images  that 
seem  to  have  a  corresponding  reality  of  their 
own. 

As  all  Art  depends  on  Vision,  so  the  different 
kinds  of  Art  depend  on  the  different  ways  in 
which  minds  look  at  things.  The  painter  can 
only  put  into  his  pictures  what  he  sees  in  Ka- 
ture;  and  what  he  sees  will  be  different  from 
what  another  sees.  A  poetical  mind  sees  noble 
and  affecting  suggestions  in  details  which  tlie 
prosaic  mind  will  interpret  prosaically.  And 
the  true  meaning  of  Idealism  is  precisely  this 
vision  of  realities  in  their  highest  and  most  af- 
fecting forms,  not  in  the  vision  of  something 
removed  from  or  opposed  to  realities.  Titian's 


Of   Vision  in  Art.  99 

grand  picture  of  " Peter  the  Martyr"  is,  per- 
haps, as  instructive  an  example  as  could  be 
chosen  of  successful  Idealism ;  because  in  it  we 
have  a  marvellous  presentation  of  reality  as  seen 
by  a  poetic  mind.  The  figure  of  the  flying 
monk  might  have  been  equally  real  if  it  had 
been  an  ignoble  presentation  of  terror — the  su- 
perb tree,  which  may  almost  be  called  an  actor 
in  the  drama,  might  have  been  painted  with 
even  greater  minuteness,  though  not  perhaps 
with  equal  effect  upon  us,  if  it  had  arrested  our 
attention  by  its  details — the  dying  martyr  and 
the  noble  assassin  might  have  been  made  equally 
real  in  more  vulgar  types — but  the 'triumph 
achieved  by  Titian  is  that  the  mind  is  filled 
with  a  vision  of  poetic  beauty  which  is  felt  to 
be  real.  An  equivalent  reality,  without  the  en- 
nobling beauty,  would  have  made  the  picture  a 
fine  piece  of  realistic  art.  It  is  because  of  this 
poetic  way  of  seeing  things  that  one  painter  will 
give  a  faithful  representation  of  a  very  common 
scene  which  shall  nevertheless  affect  all  sensi- 
tive minds  as  ideal,  whereas  another  painter 
will  represent  the  same  with  no  greater  fidelity, 
but  with  a  complete  absence  of  poetry.  The 
greater  the  fidelity,  the  greater  will  be  the  merit  \j 
of  each  representation ;  for  if  a  man  pretends  J 


100  Success  in  Literature. 

to  represent  an  object,  he  pretends  to  represent 
it  accurately:  the  only  difference  is  what  the 
poetical  or  prosaic  mind  sees  in  the  object. 

Of  late  years  there  has  been  a  reaction 
against  conventionalism  which  called  itself 
Idealism,  in  favor  of  detailism  which  calls  it- 
self Realism.  As  a  reaction  it  has  been  of  ser- 
vice; but  it  has  led  to  much  false  criticism,  and 
not  a  little  false  art,  by  an  obtrusiveness  of  De- 
tail and  a  preference  for  the  Familiar,  under 
the  misleading  notion  of  adherence  to  Nature. 
If  the  words  Nature  and  Natural  could  be  en- 
tirely banished  from  language  about  Art  there 
would  be  some  chance  of  coming  to  a  rational 
philosophy  of  the  subject;  at  present  the  exces- 
sive vagueness  and  shiftiness  of  these  terms 
cover  any  amount  of  sophism.  The  pots  and 
pans  of  Teniers  and  Van  Mieris  are  natural; 
the  passions  and  humors  of  Shakspeare  and  Mo- 
liere  are  natural;  the  angels  of  Fra  Angelico 
and  Luini  are  natural ;  the  Sleeping  Fawn  and 
Fates  of  Phidias  are  natural;  the  cows  and 
misty  marshes  of  Cuyp  and  the  vacillations  of 
Hamlet  are  equally  natural.  In  fact  the  natu- 
\«  ral  means  truth  of  kind.  Each  kind  of  char- 
1  acter,  each  kind  of  representation,  must  be 
judged  by  itself.  Whereas  the  vulgar  error  of 


Of  Vision  in  Art.  101 

criticism  is  to  judge  of  one.  kind  by  anpther, 
and  generally  to  judge  the  higher  by  the  IOV.TI-, 
to  remonstrate  with  Hamlet  for  not  having  the 
speech  and  manner  of  Mr.  Jones,  to  wish  that 
Fra  Angelico  could  have  seen  with  the  eyes  of 
the  Carracci,  to  wish  verse  had  been  prose,  and 
that  ideal  tragedy  were  acted  with  the  easy 
manner  acceptable  in  drawing-rooms. 

The  rage  for  "  realism/5  which  is  healthy  in 
as  far  as  it  insists  on  truth,  has  become  un- 
healthy, in  as  far  as  it  confounds  truth  with  fa- 
miliarity., and  predominance  of  unessential  de- 
tails. There  are  other  truths  besides  coats  and 
waistcoats,  pots  and  pans,  drawing-rooms  and 
suburban  villas.  Life  has  other  aims  besides 
those  which  occupy  the  conversation  of  "  Soci- 
ety." And  the  painter  who  devotes  years  to  a 
work  representing  modern  life,  yet  calls  for 
even  more  attention  to  a  waistcoat  than  to  the  / 
face  of  a  philosopher,  may  exhibit  truth  of  de- 
tail which  will  delight  the  tailor-mind,  but  he 
is  defective  in  artistic  truth,  because  he  ought 
to  be  representing  something  higher  than  waist- 
coats, and  because  our  thoughts  on  modern  life 
fall  very  casually  and  without  emphasis  on 
waist-coats.  In  Piloty's  much-admired  picture 
of  the  "Death  of  Wallenstein "  (at  Munich), 


102  Success  in  Literature. 

the  truth  with  which  the  carpet,  the  velvet,  and 
:  ail  "other  ^a-ccesfcoriss  are  painted,  is  certainly  re- 
markable; but  the  falsehood  of  giving  promi- 
nence to  such  details  in  a  picture  representing 
the  dead  Wallenstein — as  if  they  were  the  ob- 
jects which  could  possibly  arrest  our  attention 
and  excite  our  sympathies  in  such  a  spectacle — 
is  a  falsehood  of  the  realistic  school.  If  a  man 
means  to  paint  upholstery,  by  all  means  let  him 
paint  it  so  as  to  delight  and  deceive  an  up- 
holsterer; but  if  he  means  to  paint  a  human 
J  (  tragedy,  the  upholsterer  must  be  subordinate, 
and  velvet  must  not  draw  our  eyes  away  from 
faces. 

I  have  digressed  a  little  from  my  straight 
route  because  I  wish  to  guard  the  Principle  of 
Vision  from  certain  misconceptions  which 
might  arise  on  a  simple  statement  of  it.  The 
principle  insists  on  the  artist  assuring  himself 
that  he  distinctly  sees  what  he  attempts  to  rep- 
resent. What  he  sees,  and  how  he  represents 
it,  depend  on  other  principles.  To  make  even 
this  Principle  of  Vision  thoroughly  intelligible 
m  its  application  to  all  forms  of  Literature  and 
Art,  it  must  be  considered  in  connection  with 
the  two  other  principles — Sincerity  and  Beauty, 
which  are  involved  in  all  successful  works.  In 
the  next  chapter  we  shall  treat  of  Sincerity. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  PRINCIPLE  OF  SINCERITY. 

It  is  always  understood  as  an  expression  of 
condemnation  when  anything  in  Literature  or 
Art  is  said  to  be  done  for  effect;  and  yet  to 
produce  an  effect  is  the  aim  and  end  of  both. 

There  is  nothing  beyond  a  verbal  ambiguity 
here  if  we  look  at  it  closely,  and  yet  there  is  a 
corresponding  uncertainty  in  the  conception  of 
Literature  and  Art  commonly  entertained, 
which  leads  many  writers  and  many  critics  into 
the  belief  that  what  are  called  "  effects  "  should 
be  sought,  and  when  found  must  succeed.  It 
is  desirable  to  clear  up  this  moral  ambiguity, 
as  I  may  call  it,  and  to  show  that  the  real 
method  of  securing  the  legitimate  effect  is  not  ') 
to  aim  at  it,  but  to  aim  at  the  truth,  relying 
on  that  for  securing  effect.  The  condemnation 
of  whatever  is  "done  for  effect"  obviously 
springs  from  indignation  at  a  disclosed  insin- 
cerity in  the  artist,  who  is  self-convicted  of 


104  Success  in  Literature. 

having  neglected  truth  for  the  sake  of  our  ap- 
plause; and  we  refuse  our  applause  to  the  flat- 
terer, or  give  it  contemptuously  as  to  a  mounte- 
bank whose  dexterity  has  amused  us. 

It  is  unhappily  true  that  much  insincere  Lit- 
erature and  Art,  executed  solely  with  a  view  to 
effect,  does  succeed  hy  deceiving  the  public. 
But  this  is  only  because  the  simulation  of  truth 
or  the  blindness  of  the  public  conceals  the  in- 
sincerity. As  a  maxim,  the  Principle  of  Sin- 
K  cerity  is  admitted.  Nothing  but  what  is  true, 
or  is  held  to  be  true,  can  succeed;  anything 
which  looks  like  insincerity  is  condemned.  In 
this  respect  we  may  compare  it  with  the  maxim 
of  Honesty  the  best  policy.  No  far-reaching 
intellect  fails  to  perceive  that  if  all  men  were 
uniformly  upright  and  truthful,  Life  would  be 
more  victorious,  and  Literature  more  noble. 
We  find,  however,  both  in  Life  and  Literature, 
a  practical  disregard  of  the  truth  of  these  prop- 
ositions almost  equivalent  to  a  disbelief  in  them. 
Many  men  are  keenly  alive  to  the  social  advan- 
tages of  honesty — in  the  practice  of  others. 
They  are  also  strongly  impressed  with  the  con- 
viction that  in  their  own  particular  case  the 
advantage  will  sometimes  lie  in  not  strictly  ad- 
hering to  the  rule.  Honesty  is  doubtless  the 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  105 

best  policy  in  the  long  run;  but  somehow  the 
run  here  seems  so  very  long,  and  a  short-cut 
opens  up  such  allurements  to  impatient  desire. 
It  requires  a  firm  calm  insight,  or  a  noble  habit 
of  thought,  to  steady  the  wavering  mind,  and 
direct  it  away  from  delusive  short-cuts :  to  make 
belief  practice,  and  forego  immediate  triumph. 


Many  of  those  who  unhesitatingly  admit  Sin- 


cerity to  be  one  great  condition  of  success  in 
Literature  find  it  difficult,  and  often  impossi- 
ble, to  resist  the  temptation  of  an  insincerity 
which  promises  immediate  advantage.  It  is 
not  only  the  grocers  who  sand  their  sugar  be- 
fore prayers.  Writers  who  know  well  enough 
that  the  triumph  of  falsehood  is  an  unholy  tri- 
umph, are  not  deterred  from  falsehood  by  that 
knowledge.  They  know,  perhaps,  that,  even  if 
undetected,  it  will  press  on  their  own  con- 
sciences; but  the  knowledge  avails  them  little. 
The  immediate  pressure  of  the  temptation  is 
yielded  to,  and  Sincerity  remains  a  text  to  be  7 
preached  to  others.  To  gain  applause  they  will 
misstate  facts,  to  gain  victory  in  argument  they 
will  misrepresent  the  opinions  they  oppose ;  and 
they  suppress  the  rising  misgivings  by  the  dan- 
gerous sophisms  that  to  discredit  error  is  good 
work,  and  by  the  hope  that  no  one  will  detect 


106  Success  in  Literature. 

the  means  by  which  the  work  is  effected.  The 
saddest  aspect  of  this  procedure  is  that  in  Liter- 
ature, as  in  Life,  a  temporary  success  often  does 
reward  dishonesty.  It  would  be  insincere  to 
conceal  it.  To  gain  a  reputation  as  discoverers 
men  will  invent  or  suppress  facts.  To  appear 
learned,  they  will  array  their  writings  in  the 
ostentation  of  borrowed  citations.  To  solicit 
the  "  sweet  voices  "  of  the  crowd,  they  will  feign 
sentiments  they  do  not  feel,  and  utter  what  they 
think  the  crowd  will  wish  to  hear,  keeping  back 
whatever  the  crowd  will  hear  with  disapproval. 
And,  as  I  said,  such  men  often  succeed  for  a 
time;  the  fact  is  so,  and  we  must  not  pretend 
k  that  it  is  otherwise.  But  it  no  more  disturbs 
the  fundamental  truth  of  the  Principle  of  Sin- 
cerity than  the  perturbations  in  the  orbit  of 
Mars  disturb  the  truth  of  Kepler's  law. 

It  is  impossible  to  deny  that  dishonest  men 
often  grow  rich  and  famous,  becoming  powerful 
in  their  parish  or  in  parliament.  Their  portraits 
simper  from  shop  windows:  and  they  live  and 
die  respected.  This  success  is  theirs;  yet  it  is 
not  the  success  which  a  noble  soul  will  envy. 
Apart  from  the  risk  of  discovery  and  infamy, 
there  is  the  certainty  of  a  conscience  ill  at  ease, 
or  if  at  ease,  so  blunted  in  its  sensibilities,  so 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  107 

given  over  to  lower  lusts,  that  a  healthy  instinct 
recoils  from  such  a  state.  Observe,  moreover, 
that  in  Literature  the  possible  rewards  of  dis- 
honesty are  small,  and  the  probability  of  detec- 
tion great.  In  Life  a  dishonest  man  is  chiefly 
moved  by  desires  towards  some  tangible  result 
of  money  or  power;  if  he  get  these  he  has  got 
all.  The  man  of  letters  has  a  higher  aim :  the 
very  object  of  his  toil  is  to  secure  the  sympathy 
and  respect  of  men;  and  the  rewards  of  his 
toil  may  be  paid  in  money,  fame,  or  conscious- 
ness of  earnest  effort.  The  first  of  these  may 
sometimes  be  gained  without  Sincerity.  Fame 
may  also,  for  a  time,  be  erected  on  an  unstable 
ground,  though  it  will  inevitably  be  destroyed 
again.  But  the  last  and  not  least  reward  is  to 
be  gained  by  everyone  without  fear  of  failure, 
without  risk  of  change.  Sincere  work  is  good 
work,  be  it  never  so  humble;  and  sincere  work 
is  not  only  an  indestructible  delight  to  the 
worker  by  its  very  genuineness,  but  is  immortal 
in  the  best  sense,  for  it  lives  for  ever  in  its  in- 
fluence. There  is  no  good  Dictionary,  not  even 
a  good  Index,  that  is  not  in  this  sense  priceless, 
for  it  has  honestly  furthered  the  work  of  the 
world,  saving  labor  to  others ;  setting  an  exam- 
ple to  successors.  Whether  I  make  a  careful 


108  Success  in  Literature. 

Index,  or  an  inaccurate  one,  will  probably  in  no 
respect  affect  the  money-payment  I  shall  re- 
ceive. My  sins  will  never  fall  heavily  on  me; 
my  virtue  will  gain  me  neither  extra  pence  nor 
praise.  I  shall  be  hidden  by  obscurity  from  the 
indignation  of  those  whose  valuable  time  is 
wasted  over  my  pretence  at  accuracy,  as  from 
the  silent  gratitude  of  those  whose  time  is  saved 
by  my  honest  fidelity.  The  consciousness  of 
faithfulness  even  to  the  poor  index  maker  may 
be  a  better  reward  than  pence  or  praise;  but 
of  course  we  cannot  expect  the  unconscientious 
to  believe  this.  If  I  sand  my  sugar,  and  tell  lies 
over  my  counter,  I  may  gain  the  rewards  of 
dishonesty,  or  I  may  be  overtaken  by  its  Neme- 
sis. But  if  I  am  faithful  in  my  work  the  re- 
ward cannot  be  withheld  from  me.  The  obscure 
workers  who,  knowing  that  they  will  never  earn 
renown  yet  feel  an  honorable  pride  in  doing 
their  work  faithfully,  may  be  likened  to  the 
benevolent  who  feel  a  noble  delight  in  perform- 
ing generous  actions  which  will  never  be  known 
to  be  theirs,  the  only  end  they  seek  in  such 
actions  being  the  good  which  is  wrought  for 
others,  and  their  delight  being  the  sympathy 
with  others. 


T/ie  Principle  of  Sincerity.  109 

I  should  be  ashamed  to  insist  on  truths  so 
little  likely  to  be  disputed,  did  they  not  point 
directly  at  the  great  source  of  bad  Literature, 
which,  as  was  said  in  our  first  chapter,  springs 
from  a  want  of  proper  moral  guidance  rather 
than  from  deficiency  of  talent.  The  Principle 
of  Sincerity  comprises  all  those  qualities  of 
courage,  patience,  honesty,  and  simplicity 
which  give  momentum  to  talent,  and  determine 
successful  Literature.  It  is  not  enough  to  have 
the  eye  to  see;  there  must  also  be  the  courage 
to  express  what  the  eye  has  seen,  and  the  stead- 
fastness of  a  trust  in  truth.  Insight,  imagina- 
tion, grace  of  style  are  potent;  but  their  power 
is  delusive  unless  sincerely  guided.  If  any  one 
should  object  that  this  is  a  truism,  the  answer 
is  ready :  Writers  disregard  its  truth,  as  traders 
disregard  the  truism  of  honesty  being  the  best 
policy.  Nay,  as  even  the  most  upright  men  are 
occasionally  liable  to  swerve  from  the  truth, 
so  the  most  upright  authors  will  in  some  pas- 
sages desert  a  perfect  sincerity ;  yet  the  ideal  of 
both  is  rigorous  truth.  Men  who  are  never 
flagrantly  dishonest  are  at  times  unveracious  in 
small  matters,  coloring  or  suppressing  facts 
with  a  conscious  purpose;  and  writers  who 
never  stole  an  idea  nor  pretended  to  honors  for 


110  Success  in  Literature. 

which  they  had  not  striven,  may  be  found  laps- 
ing into  small  insincerities,  speaking  a  language 
which  is  not  theirs,  uttering  opinions  which 
they  expect  to  gain  applause  rather  than  the 
opinions  really  believed  by  them.  But  if  few 
men  are  perfectly  and  persistently  sincere, 
Sincerity  is  nevertheless  the  only  enduring 
strength. 

The  principle  is  universal,  stretching  from 
the  highest  purposes  of  Literature  down  to  its 
smallest  details.  It  underlies  the  labor  of  the 
philosopher,  the  investigator,  the  moralist,  the 
poet,  the  novelist,  the  critic,  the  historian,  and 
the  compiler.  It  is  visible  in  the  publication  of 
opinions,  in  the  structure  of  sentences,  and  in 
the  fidelity  of  citations.  Men  utter  insincere 
thoughts,  they  express  themselves  in  echoes  and 
affectations,  and  they  are  careless  or  dishonest 
in  their  use  of  the  labors  of  others,  all  the  time 
believing  in  the  virtue  of  sincerity,  all  the  time 
trying  to  make  others  believe  honesty  to  be  the 
best  policy. 

Let  us  glance  for  a  moment  at  the  most  im- 
portant applications  of  the  principle.  A  man 
must  be  himself  convinced  if  he  is  to  convince 
others.  The  prophet  must  be  his  own  disciple, 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  Ill 

or  he  will  make  none.  Enthusiasm  is  conta- 
gious: belief  creates  belief.  There  is  no  influ- 
ence issuing  from  unbelief  or  from  languid 
acquiesence.  This  is  peculiarly  noticeable  in 
Art,  because  Art  depends  on  sympathy  for  its 
influence,  and  unless  the  artist  has  felt  the 
emotions  he  depicts  we  remain  unmoved:  in 
proportion  to  the  depth  of  his  feeling  is  our 
sympathetic  response;  in  proportion  to  the 
shallowness  or  falsehood  of  his  presentation  is 
our  coldness  or  indifference.  Many  writers  who 
have  been  fond  of  quoting  the  si  vis  me  flere  of 
Horace  have  written  as  if  they  did  not  believe 
a  word  of  it;  for  they  have  been  silent  on  their 
own  convictions,  suppressed  their  own  exper- 
ience, and  falsified  their  own  feelings  to  repeat 
the  convictions  and  fine  phrases  of  another.  I 
am  sorry  that  my  experience  assures  me  that 
many  of  those  who  will  read  with  complete  as- 
sent all  here  written  respecting  the  power  of 
Sincerity,  will  basely  desert  their  allegiance  to 
the  truth  the  next  time  they  begin  to  write; 
and  they  will  desert  it  because  their  misguided 
views  of  Literature  prompt  them  to  think  more 
of  what  the  public  is  likely  to  applaud  than  of 
what  is  worth  applause ;  unfortunately  for  them 
their  estimation  of  this  likelihood  is  generally 


112  Success  in  Literature. 

based  on  a  very  erroneous  assumption  of  public 
wants :  they  grossly  mistake  the  taste  they  pan- 
x   der  to. 

In  all  sincere  speech  there  is  power,  not  nec- 
essarily great  power,  but  as  much  as  the  speaker 
is  capable  of.  Speak  for  yourself  and  from 
yourself,  or  be  silent.  It  can  be  of  no  good  that 
you  should  tell  in  your  "clever"  feeble  way 
what  another  has  already  told  us  with  the  dy- 
namic energy  of  conviction.  If  you  can  tell  us 
something  that  your  own  eyes  have  seen,  your 
own  mind  has  thought,  your  own  heart  has  felt, 
you  will  have  power  over  us,  and  all  the  real 
power  that  is  possible  for  you.  If  what  you 
have  seen  is  trivial,  if  what  you  have  thought 
is  erroneous,  if  what  you  have  felt  is  feeble,  it 
would  assuredly  be  better  that  you  should  not 
speak  at  all;  but  if  you  insist  on  speaking  Sin- 
cerity will  secure  the  uttermost  of  power. 

The  delusions  of  self-love  cannot  be  pre- 
vented, but  intellectual  misconceptions  as  to  the 
means  of  achieving  success  may  be  corrected. 
Thus  although  it  may  not  be  possible  for  any 
introspection  to  discover  whether  we  have 
genius  or  effective  power,  it  is  quite  possible 
to  know  whether  we  are  trading  upon  borrowed 
capital,  and  whether  the  eagle's  feathers 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  113 

have  been  picked  up  by  us,  or  grow  from 
our  own  wings.  I  hear  some  one  of  my 
young  readers  exclaim  against  the  disheart- 
ening tendency  of  what  is  here  said.  Ambi- 
tious of  success,  and  conscious  that  he  has  no 
great  resources  within  his  own  experience,  he 
shrinks  from  the  idea  of  being  thrown  upon  his 
naked  faculty  and  limited  resources,  when  he 
feels  himself  capable  of  dexterously  using  the 
resources  of  others,  and  so  producing  an  effect- 
ive work.  "Why,"  he  asks,  "must  I  confine 
myself  to  my  own  small  experience,  when  I  feel 
persuaded  that  it  will  interest  no  one  ?  Why 
express  the  opinions  to  which  my  own  investiga- 
tions have  led  me  when  I  suspect  that  they  are 
incomplete,  perhaps  altogether  erroneous,  and 
when  I  know  that  they  will  not  be  popular  be- 
cause they  are  unlike  those  which  have  hitherto 
found  favor?  Your  restrictions  would  reduce 
two-thirds  of  our  writers  to  silence !" 

This  reduction  would,  I  suspect,  be  welcomed 
by  every  one  except  the  gagged  writers ;  but  as 
the  idea  of  its  being  operative  is  too  chimerical 
for  us  to  entertain  it,  and  as  the  purpose  of 
these  pages  is  to  expound  the  principles  of  suc- 
cess and  failure,  not  to  make  Quixotic  on- 
slaughts on  the  windmills  of  stupidity  and  con- 
ceit, I  answer  my  young  interrogator :  "  Take 


114  Success  in  Literature. 

warning  and  do  not  write.  Unless  you  believe 
N[  in  yourself,  only  noodles  will  believe  in  you,  and 
they  but  tepidly.  If  your  experience  seems 
trivial  to  you,  it  must  seem  trivial  to  us.  If 
your  thoughts  are  not  fervid  convictions,  or 
sincere  doubts,  they  will  not  have  the  power  of 
convictions  and  doubts.  To  believe  in  yourself 
is  the  first  step;  to  proclaim  your  belief  the 
next.  You  cannot  assume  the  power  of  another. 
No  jay  becomes  an  eagle  by  borrowing  a  few 
eagle  feathers.  It  is  true  that  your  sincerity- 
will  not  be  a  guarantee  of  power.  You  may 
believe  that  to  be  important  and  novel  which 
we  all  recognise  as  trivial  and  old.  You  may  be 
a  madman,  and  believe  yourself  a  prophet.  You 
may  be  a  mere  echo,  and  believe  yourself  a 
voice.  These  are  among  the  delusions  against 
which  none  of  us  are  protected.  But  if  Sin- 
cerity is  not  necessarily  a  guarantee  of  power, 
it  is  a  necessary  condition  of  power,  and  no 
genius  or  prophet  can  exist  without  it." 

"The  highest  merit  we  ascribe  to  Moses, 
Plato,  and  Milton,"  says  Emerson,  "  is  that  they 
set  at  naught  books  and  traditions,  and  spoke 
not  what  men  thought,  but  what  they  thought. 
A  man  should  learn  to  detect  and  watch  that 
gleam  of  light  which  flashes  across  his  mind 


Tke  Principle  of  Sincerity.  115 

from  within,  more  than  the  lustre  of  the  firma- 
ment of  bards  and  sages.  Yet  he  dismisses 
without  notice  his  thought  because  it  is  his.  In 
every  work  of  genius  we  recognize  our  own  re- 
jected thoughts:  they  come  back  to  us  with  a 
certain  alienated  majesty."  It  is  strange  that 
any  one  who  has  recognised  the  individuality  of 
all  works  of  lasting  influence,  should  not  also 
recognise  the  fact  that  his  own  individuality 
ought  to  be  steadfastly  preserved.  As  Emerson 
says  in  continuation,  "  Great  works  of  art  have 
no  more  affecting  lesson  for  us  than  this.  They 
teach  us  to  abide  by  our  spontaneous  impression 
with  good-humored  inflexibility  then  most  when 
the  whole  cry  of  voices  is  on  the  other  side. 
Else,  to-morrow  a  stranger  will  say  with  mas- 
terly good  sense  precisely  what  we  have  thought 
and  felt  all  the  time,  and  we  shall  be  forced  to 
take  with  shame  our  own  opinion  from  an- 
other." Accepting  the  opinions  of  another  and 
the  tastes  of  another  is  very  different  from 
agreement  in  opinion  and  taste.  Originality 
is  independence,  not  rebellion;  it  is  sincerity, 
not  antagonism.  Whatever  you  believe  to  be 
true  and  false,  that  proclaim  to  be  true  and 
false ;  whatever  you  think  admirable  and  beau- 
tiful, that  should  be  your  model,  even  if  all 


116  Success  in  Literature. 

your  friends  and  all  the  critics  storm  at  you  as 
a  crochet-monger  and  an  eccentric.  Whether 
the  public  will  feel  its  truth  and  beauty  at  once, 
or  after  long  years,  or  never  cease  to  regard  it 
as  paradox  and  ugliness,,  no  man  can  foresee; 
enough  for  you  to  know  that  you  have  done 
your  best,  have  been  true  to  yourself,  and  that 
the  utmost  power  inherent  in  your  work  has 
been  displayed. 

An  orator  whose  purpose  is  to  persuade  men 
must  speak  the  things  they  wish  to  hear;  an 
orator,  whose  purpose  is  to  move  men,  must 
also  avoid  disturbing  the  emotional  effect  by 
any  obtrusion  of  intellectual  antagonism;  but 
an  author  whose  purpose  is  to  instruct  men, 
who  appeals  to  the  intellect,  must  be  careless  of 
their  opinions,  and  think  only  of  truth.  It  will 
often  be  a  question  when  a  man  is  or  is  not  wise 
in  advancing  unpalatable  opinions,  or  in 
preaching  heresies;  but  it  can  never  be  a  ques- 
tion that  a  man  should  be  silent  if  unprepared 
to  speak  the  truth  as  he  conceives  it.  Deference 
to  popular  opinion  is  one  great  source  of  bad 
writing,  and  is  all  the  more  disastrous  because 
the  deference  is  paid  to  some  purely  hypothet- 
ical requirement.  When  a  man  fails  to  see  the 
truth  of  certain  generally  accepted  views,  there 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  117 

is  no  law  compelling  him  to  provoke  animosity 
by  announcing  his  dissent.  He  may  be  excused 
if  he  shrink  from  the  lurid  glory  of  martyrdom ; 
he  may  be  justified  in  not  placing  himself  in  a 
position  of  singularity.  He  may  even  be  com- 
mended for  not  helping  to  perplex  mankind 
with  doubts  which  he  feels  to  be  founded  on 
limited  and  possibly  erroneous  investigation. 
But  if  allegiance  to  truth  lays  no  stern  com- 
mand upon  him  to  speak  out  his  immature  dis- 
sent, it  does  lay  a  stern  command  not  to  speak 
out  hypocritical  assent.  There  are  many  jus- 
tifications of  silence;  there  can  be  none  of  in- 
sincerity. 

Nor  is  this  less  true  of  minor  questions;  it 
applies  equally  to  opinions  on  matters  of  taste 
and  personal  feeling.  Why  should  I  echo  what 
seems  to  me  the  extravagant  praises  of  Kaph- 
aePs  "  Transfiguration,"  when,  in  truth,  I  do 
not  greatly  admire  that  famous  work?  There 
is  no  necessity  for  me  to  speak  on  the  subject 
at  all;  but  if  I  do  speak,  surely  it  is  to  utter 
my  impressions,  and  not  to  repeat  what  others 
have  uttered.  Here,  then,  is  a  dilemma;  if 
I  say  what  I  really  feel  about  this  work,  after 
vainly  endeavoring  day  after  day  to  disc6ver  the 
transcendent  merits  discovered  by  thousands 


118  Success  in  Literature. 

(or  at  least  proclaimed  by  them),  there  is  every 
likelihood  of  my  incurring  the  contempt  of 
connoisseurs,  and  of  being  reproached  with 
want  of  taste  in  art.  This  is  the  bugbear  which 
scares  thousands.  For  myself,  I  would  rather 
incur  the  contempt  of  connoisseurs  than  my 
own ;  the  reproach  of  defective  taste  is  more  en- 
durable than  the  reproach  of  insincerity.  Sup- 
pose I  am  deficient  in  the  requisite  knowledge 
and  sensibility,  shall  I  be  less  so  by  pretending 
to  admire  what  really  gives  me  no  exquisite 
enjoyment?  Will  the  pleasure  I  feel  in  pic- 
tures be  enhanced  because  other  men  consider 
me  right  in  my  admiration,  or  diminished  be- 
cause they  consider  me  wrong?* 

The  opinion  of  the  majority  is  not  lightly  to 
be  rejected;  but  neither  is  it  to  be  carelessly 
echoed.  There  is  something  noble  in  the  sub- 
mission to  a  great  renown,  which  makes  all 
reverence  a  healthy  attitude  if  it  be  genuine. 

*I  have  never  thoroughly  understood  the  painful  anxiety 
of  people  to  be  shielded  against  the  dishonoring  suspicion  o*f 
not  rightly  appreciating  pictures,  even  when  the  very  phrases 
they  use  betray  their  ignorance  and  insensibility.  Many  will 
avow  their  indifference  to  music,  and  almost  boast  of  their 
ignorance  of  science;  will  sneer  at  abstract  theories,  and 
profess  the  most  tepid  interest  in  history,  who  would  feel  it 
an  unpardonable  insult  if  you  doubted  their  enthusiasm  for 
painting  and  the  "old  masters"  (by  them  secretly  identified 
with  the  brown  masters),  it  is  an  insincerity  fostered  by 
general  pretenc\  Each  man  is  afraid  to  declare  his  real 
sentiments  in  the  presence  of  others  equally  timid.  Massive 
authority  overawes  genuine  feeling. 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  119 

When  I  think  of  the  immense  fame  of  Raph- 
ael, and  of  how  many  high  and  delicate  minds 
have  found  exquisite  delight  even  in  the 
"  Transfiguration,"  and  especially  when  I  re- 
call how  others  of  his  works  have  affected  me, 
it  is  natural  to  feel  some  diffidence  in  opposing 
the  judgment  of  men  whose  studies  have  given 
them  the  best  means  of  forming  that  judgment 
— a  diffidence  which  may  keep  me  silent  on  the 
matter.  To  start  with  the  assumption  that  you 
are  right,  and  all  who  oppose  you  are  fools, 
cannot  be  a  safe  method.  NOT  in  spite  of  a  con- 
viction that  much  of  the  admiration  expressed 
for  the  "  Transfiguration "  is  lip-homage  and 
tradition,  ought  the  non-admiring  to  assume 
that  all  of  it  is  insincere.  It  is  quite  compati- 
ble with  modesty  to  be  perfectly  independent, 
and  with  sincerity  to  be  respectful  to  the  opin- 
ions and  tastes  of  others.  If  you  express  any 
opinion,  you  are  bound  to  express  your  real 
opinion;  let  critics  and  admirers  utter  what 
dithyrambs  they  please.  Were  this  terror  of 
not  being  thought  correct  in  taste  once  got  rid 
of,  how  many  stereotyped  judgments  on  books 
and  pictures  would  be  broken  up  !  and  the  re- 
sult of  this  sincerity  would  be  some  really  valua- 
ble criticism.  In  the  presence  of  Raphael's 


120  Success  in  Literature. 

"  Sistine  Madonna/'  Titian's  "  Peter  the  Mar- 
tyr," or  Masaccio's  great  frescoes  in  the 
Brancacci  Chapel,  one  feels  as  if  there  had  been 
nothing  written  about  these  mighty  works,  so 
little  does  any  eulogy  discriminate  the  elements 
of  their  profound  effects,  so  little  have  critics 
expressed  their  own  thoughts  and  feelings.  Yet 
every  day  some  wandering  connoisseur  stands 
before  these  pictures,  and  at  once,  without  wait- 
ing to  let  them  sink  deep  into  his  mind,  discov- 
ers all  the  merits  which  are  stereotyped  in  the 
criticisms,  and  discovers  nothing  else.  He  does 
not  wait  to  feel,  he  is  impatient  to  range  him- 
self with  men  of  taste ;  he  discards  all  genuine 
impressions,  replacing  them  with  vague  con- 
ceptions of  what  he  is  expected  to  see. 

Inasmuch  as  success  must  be  determined  by 
the  relation  between  the  work  and  the  public, 
the  sincerity  which  leads  a  man  into  open  revolt 
against  established  opinions  may  seem  to  be  an 
obstacle.  Indeed,  publishers,  critics  and  friends 
are  always  loud  in  their  prophecies  against 
originality  and  independence  on  this  very 
ground;  they  do  their  utmost  to  stifle  every 
attempt  at  novelty,  because  they  fix  their  eyes 
upon  a  hypothetical  public  taste,  and  think 
that  only  what  has  already  been  proved  success- 
ful can  again  succeed ;  forgetting  that  whatever 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  121 

lias  once  been  done  need  not  be  done  over 
again,  and  forgetting  that  what  is  now  com- 
monplace was  once  originality.  There  are  cases 
in  which  a  disregard  of  public  opinion  will  in- 
evitably call  forth  opprobrium  or  neglect;  but 
there  is  no  case  in  which  Sincerity  is  not 
strength.  If  I  advance  new  views  in  Philosophy 
or  Theology,  I  cannot  expect  to  have  many  ad- 
herents ,  among  minds  altogether  unprepared 
for  such  views;  yet  it  is  certain  that  even  those 
who  most  fiercely  oppose  me  will  recognise  the 
power  of  my  voice  if  it  is  not  a  mere  echo ;  and 
the  very  novelty  will  challenge  attention,  and 
at  last  gain  adherents  if  my  views  have  any  real 
insight.  At  any  rate  the  point  to  be  considered 
is  this,  that  whether  the  novel  views  excite 
opposition  or  applause,  the  one  condition  of 
their  success  is  that  they  be  believed  in  by  the 
propagator.  The  public  can  only  be  really 
moved  by  what  is  genuine.  Even  an  error  if 
believed  in  will  have  greater  force  than  an  in- 
sincere truth.  Lip-advocacy  only  rouses  lip- 
homage.  It  is  belief  which  gives  momentum. 
Xor  is  it  any  serious  objection  to  what  is  here 
said,  that  insincerity  and  timid  acquiescence  in 
the  opinion  and  tastes  of  the  public  do  often 
gain  applause  and  temporary  success.  Sanding 


122  Success  in  Literature. 

the  sugar  is  not  immediately  unprofitable. 
There  is  an  unpleasant  popularity  given  to 
falsehood  in  this  world  of  ours ;  but  we  love  the 
truth  notwithstanding,  and  with  a  more  endur- 
ing love.  Who  does  not  know  what  it  is  to 
listen  to  public  speakers  pouring  forth  expres- 
sions of  hollow  belief  and  sham  enthusiasm, 
snatching  at  commonplaces  with  a  fervor  as  of 
faith,  emphasising  insincerities  as  if  to  make 
up  by  emphasis  what  is  wanting  in  feeling,  all 
the  while  saying  not  only  what  they  do  not 
believe,  but  what  the  listeners  know  they  do  not 
believe,  and  what  the  listeners,  though  they  roar 
assent,  do  not  themselves  believe, — a  turbu- 
lence of  sham,  the  very  noise  of  which  stuns  the 
conscience?  Is  such  an  orator  really  enviable, 
although  thunders  of  applause  may  have 
greeted  his  efforts?  Is  that  success,  although 
the  newspapers  all  over  the  kingdom  may  be 
reporting  the  speech?  What  influence  remains 
when  the  noise  of  the  shouts  has  died  away? 
Whereas,  if  on  the  same  occasion  one  man  gave 
utterance  to  a  sincere  thought,  even  if  it  were 
not  a  very  wise  thought,  although  the  silence 
of  the  public — perhaps  its  hisses — may  have 
produced  an  impression  of  failure,  yet  there  is 
success,  for  the  thought  will  re-appear  and 
mingle  with  the  thoughts  of  men  to  be  adopted 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  123 

or  combated  by  them,  and  may  perhaps  in  a 
few  years  mark  out  the  speaker  as  a  man  better 
worth  listening  to  than  the  noisy  orator  whose 
insincerity  was  so  much  cheered. 

The  same  observation  applies  to  books.  An 
author  who  waits  upon  the  times,  and  utters 
only  what  he  thinks  the  world  will  like  to  hear, 
who  sails  with  the  stream,  admiring  everything 
which  it  is  "  correct  taste  "  to  admire,  despising 
everything  which  has  not  yet  received  that  Hall- 
mark, sneering  at  the  thoughts  of  a  great 
thinker  not  yet  accepted  as  such,  and  slavishly 
repeating  the  small  phrases  of  a  thinker  who 
has  gained  renown,  flippant  and  contemptuous 
towards  opinions  which  he  has  not  taken  the 
trouble  to  understand,  and  never  venturing  to 
oppose  even  the  errors  of  men  in  authority,  such 
an  author  may  indeed  by  dint  of  a  certain 
dexterity  in  assorting  the  mere  husks  of  opin- 
ion gain  the  applause  of  reviewers,  who  will 
call  him  a  thinker,  and  of  indolent  men  and 
women  who  will  pronounce  him  "  so  clever ;  " 
but  triumphs  of  this  kind  are  like  oratorical 
triumphs  after  dinner.  Every  autumn  the  earth 
is  strewed  with  the  dead  leaves  of  such  vernal 
successes. 


124  Success  in  Literature. 

I  would  not  have  the  reader  conclude  that  be- 
cause I  advocate  plain-speaking  even  of  un- 
popular views,  I  mean  to  imply  that  originality 
and  sincerity  are  always  in  opposition  to  public 
opinion.  There  are  many  points  both  of  doc- 
trine and  feeling  in  which  the  world  is  not 
likely  to  be  wrong.  But  in  all  cases  it  is  desir- 
able that  men  should  not  pretend  to  believe 
opinions  which  they  really  reject,  or  express 
emotions  they  do  not  feel.  And  this  rule  is 
universal.  Even  truthful  and  modest  men  will 
sometimes  violate  the  rule  under  the  mistaken 
idea  of  being  eloquent  by  means  of  the  diction 
of  eloquence.  This  is  a  source  of  bad  Litera- 
ture. There  are  certain  views  in  Beligion, 
Ethics,  and  Politics,  which  readily  lend  them- 
selves to  eloquence,  because  eloquent  men  have 
written  largely  on  them,  and  the  temptation  to 
secure  this  facile  effect  often  seduces  men  to 
advocate  these  views,  in  preference  to  views  they 
really  see  to  be  more  rational.  That  this  elo- 
quence at  second-hand  is  but  feeble  in  its  effect, 
does  not  restrain  others  from  repeating  it.  Ex- 
perience never  seems  to  teach  them  that  grand 
speech  comes  only  from  grand  thoughts,  pas- 
sionate speech  from  passionate  emotions.  The 
pomp  and  roll  of  words,  the  trick  of  phrase, 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  125 

the  rhythm  and  the  gesture  of  an  orator,  may 
all  be  imitated,  but  not  his  eloquence.  No  man 
was  ever  eloquent  by  trying  to  be  eloquent,  but 
only  by  being  so.  Trying  leads  to  the  vice  of 
"fine  writing" — the  plague-spot  of  Literature, 
not  only  unhealthy  in  itself,  and  vulgarising 
the  grand  language  which  should  be  reserved 
for  great  thoughts,  but  encouraging  that  ten- 
dency to  select  only  those  views  upon  which  a 
spurious  enthusiasm  can  most  readily  graft  the 
representative  abstractions  and  stirring  sugges- 
tions which  will  move  public  applause.  The 
"  fine  writer "  will  always  prefer  the  opinion 
which  is  striking  to  the  opinion  which  is  true. 
He  frames  his  sentences  by  the  ear,  and  is  only 
dissatisfied  with  them  when  their  cadences  are 
ill-distributed,  or  their  diction  is  too  familiar. 

It  seldom  occurs  to  him  that  a  sentence  should 

"X 

accurately  express  his  meaning  and  no  more; 

indeed  there  is  not  often  a  definite  meaning  to 
be  expressed,  for  the  thought  which  arose  van- 
ished while  he  tried  to  express  it,  and  the  sen- 
tence, instead  of  being  determined  by  and 
moulded  on  a  thought,  is  determined  by  some 
verbal  suggestion.  Open  any  book  or  period- 
ical, and  see  how  frequently  the  writer  does  not, 
cannot,  mean  what  he  says;  and  you  will  ob- 
serve that  in  general  the  defect  does  not  arise 


126  Success  in  Literature. 

from  any  poverty  in  our  language,  but  from  the 
habitual  carelessness  which  allows  expressions 
to  be  written  down  unchallenged  provided  they 
are  sufficiently  harmonious,  and  not  glaringly 
inadequate. 

The  slapdash  insincerity  of  modern  style  en- 
tirely sets  at  nought  the  first  principle  of  writ- 
ing, which  is  accuracy.  The  art  of  writing  is 
not,  as  many  seem  to  imagine,  the  art  of  bring- 
ing fine  phrases  into  rhythmical  order,  but  the 
art  of  placing  before  the  reader  intelligible  sym- 
bols of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  in  the  writer's 
mind.  Endeavor  to  be  faithful,  and  if  there  is 
any  beauty  in  your  thought,  your  style  will  be 
beautiful;  if  there  is  any  real  emotion  to  ex- 
press, the  expression  will  be  moving.  Never 
rouge  your  style.  Trust  to  your  native  pallor 
rather  than  to  cosmetics.  Try  to  make  us  see 
what  you  see  and  to  feel  what  you  feel,  and  ban- 
ish from  your  mind  whatever  phrases  others 
may  have  used  to  express  what  was  in  their 
thoughts,  but  is  not  in  yours.  Have  you  never 
observed  what  a  slight  impression  writers  have 
produced,  in  spite  of  a  profusion  of  images,  an- 
titheses, witty  epigrams,  and  rolling  periods, 
whereas  some  simpler  style,  altogether  wanting 
in  such  "  brilliant  passage,"  has  gained  the  at- 
tention and  respect  of  thousands  ?  Whatever  is 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  127 

stuck  on  as  ornament  affects  us  as  ornament; 
we  do  not  think  an  old  hag  young  and  hand- 
some because  the  jewels  flash  from  her  brow  and 
bosom;  if  we  envy  her  wealth,  we  do  not  admire 
her  beauty. 

What  "fine  writing"  is  to  prosaists,  insin- 
cere imagery  is  to  poets:  it  is  introduced  for 
effect,  not  used  as  expression.  To  the  real  poet 
an  image  comes  spontaneously,  or  if  it  comes  as 
an  afterthought,  it  is  chosen  because  it  ex- 
presses his  meaning  and  helps  to  paint  the  pic- 
ture which  is  in  his  mind,  not  because  it  is 
beautiful  in  itself.  It  is  a  symbol,  not  an  or- 
nament. Whether  the  image  rise  slowly  before 
the  mind  during  contemplation,  or  is  seen  in 
the  same  flash  which  discloses  the  picture,  in 
each  case  it  arises  by  natural  association,  and 
is  seen,  not  sought.  The  inferior  poet  is  dis- 
satisfied with  what  he  sees,  and  casts  about  in 
search  after  something  more  striking.  He  does 
not  wait  till  an  image  is  borne  in  upon  the  tide 
of  memory,  he  seeks  for  an  image  that  will  be 
picturesque;  and  being  without  the  delicate  se- 
lective instinct  which  guides  the  fine  artist,  he 
generally  chooses  something  which  we  feel  to 
be  not  exactly  in  its  right  place.  He  thus — 

"  With  gold  and  jewels  covers  ev'ry  part, 
And  hides  with  ornament  his  want  of  art." 


128  Success  in  Literature. 

Be  true  to  your  own  soul,  and  do  not  try  to 
express  the  thought  of  another.  "  If  some  peo- 
ple," says  Euskin,  "really  see  angels  where 
others  see  only  empty  space,  let  them  paint  the 
angels:  only  let  not  anybody  else  think  they 
can  paint  an  angel,  too,  on  any  calculated 
principles  of  the  angelic."  Unhappily  this  is 
precisely  what  so  many  will  attempt,  inspired 
by  the  success  of  the  angelic  painter.  Nor  will 
the  failure  of  others  warn  them. 

Whatever  is  sincerely  felt  or  believed,  what- 
ever forms  part  of  the  imaginative  experience, 
and  is  not  simply  imitation  or  hearsay,  may 
fitly  be  given  to  the  world,  and  will  always 
maintain  an  infinite  superiority  over  imitative 
splendor;  because  although  it  by  no  means  fol- 
lows that  whatever  has  formed  part  of  the  art- 
ist's experience  must  be  impressive,  or  can  do 
without  artistic  presentation,  yet  his  artistic 
power  will  always  be  greater  over  his  own  ma- 
terial than  over  another's.  Emerson  has  well 
remarked  that  "those  facts,  words,  persons, 
which  dwell  in  a  man's  memory  without  his 
being  able  to  say  why,  remain,  because  they 
have  a  relation  to  him  not  less  real  for  being  as 
yet  unapprehended.  They  are  symbols  of  value 
to  him,  as  they  can  interpret  parts  of  his  con- 
sciousness which  he  would  vainly  seek  words  for 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  129 

in  the  conventional  images  of  books  and  other 
minds.  What  attracts  my  attention  shall  have 
it,  as  I  will  go  to  the  man  who  knocks  at  my 
door,  whilst  a  thousand  persons,  as  worthy,  go 
by  it,  to  whom  I  give  no  regard.  It  is  enough 
that  these  particulars  speak  to  me.  A  few  an- 
ecdotes, a  few  traits  of  character,  manners,  face, 
a  few  incidents,  have  an  emphasis  in  your  mem- 
ory out  of  all  proportion  to  their  apparent  sig- 
nificance, if  you  measure  them  by  the  ordinary 
standards.  They  relate  to  your  gift.  Let 
them  have  their  weight,  and  do  not  reject  them, 
and  cast  about  for  illustrations  and  facts  more 
usual  in  literature." 

In  the  notes  to  the  last  edition  of  his  poems, 
Wordsworth  specified  the  particular  occasions 
which  furnished  him  with  particular  images. 
It  was  the  things  he  had  seen  which  he  put  into 
his  verses;  and  that  is  why  they  affect  us.  It 
matters  little  whether  the  poet  draws  his  images 
directly  from  present  experience,  or  indirectly 
from  memory — whether  the  sight  of  the  slow- 
sailing  swan,  that  "  floats  double,  swan  and 
shadow  "  be  at  once  transferred  to  the  scene  of 
the  poem  he  is  writing,  or  come  back  upon  him 
in  after  years  to  complete  some  picture  in  his 
mind ;  enough  that  the  image  be  suggested,  and 
not  sought. 


130  Success  in  Literature. 

The  sentence  from  Kuskin,  quoted  just  now, 
will  guard  against  the  misconception  that  a 
writer,  because  told  to  rely  on  his  own  experi- 
ence, is  enjoined  to  forego  the  glory  and  delight 
of  creation  even  of  fantastic  types.  He  is  only 
told  never  to  pretend  to  see  what  he  has  not 
seen.  He  is  urged  to  follow  Imagination  in 
her  most  erratic  course,  though  like  a  will-o'- 
wisp  she  lead  over  marsh  and  fen  away  from  the 
haunts  of  mortals;  but  not  to  pretend  that  he 
is  following  a  will-o'-wisp  when  his  vagrant 
fancy  never  was  allured  by  one.  It  is  idle  to 
paint  fairies  and  goblins  unless  you  have  a  gen- 
uine vision  of  them  which  forces  you  to  paint 
them.  They  are  poetical  objects,  but  only  to 
poetic  minds.  "  Be  a  plain  topographer  if  you 
possibly  can ;  "  says  Kuskin,  "  if  Nature  meant 
you  to  be  anything  else,  she  will  force  you  to  it ; 
but  never  try  to  be  a  prophet;  go  on  quietly 
with  your  hard  camp-work,  and  the  spirit  will 
come  to  you  in  the  camp  as  it  did  to  Eldad  and 
Medad,  if  you  are  appointed  to  have  it."  Yes : 
if  you  are  appointed  to  it ;  if  your  faculties  are 
such  that  this  high  success  is  possible,  it  will 
come,  provided  the  faculties  are  employed  with 
sincerity.  Otherwise  it  cannot  come.  No  insin- 
cere effort  can  secure  it. 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  131 

If  the  advice  I  give  to  reject  every  insincerity 
m  writing  seem  cruel,  because  it  robs  the  writer 
of  so  many  of  his  effects — if  it  seem  dishearten- 
ing to  earnestly  warn  a  man  not  to  try  to  be 
eloquent,  but  only  to  be  eloquent  when  his 
thoughts  move  with  an  impassioned  largo — if 
throwing  a  writer  back  upon  his  naked  faculty 
seem  especially  distasteful  to  those  who  have  a 
painful  misgiving  that  their  faculty  is  small, 
and  that  the  uttermost  of  their  own  power 
would  be  far  from  impressive,  my  answer  is  that 
I  have  no  hope  of  dissuading  feeble  writers 
from  the  practice  of  insincerity,  but  as  under  no 
circumstances  can  they  become  good  writers 
and  achieve  success,  my  analysis  has  no  refer- 
ence to  them,  my  advice  has  no  aim  at  them* 

It  is  to  the  young  and  strong,  to  the  ambi- 
tious and  the  earnest,  that  my  words  are  ad- 
dressed. It  is  to  wipe  the  film  from  their  eyes, 
and  make  them  see,  as  they  will  see  directly  the 
truth  is  placed  before  them,  how  easily  vie  are 
all  seduced  into  greater  or  less  insincerity  of 
thought,  of  feeling,  and  of  style,  either  by  re- 
liance on  other  writers,  from  whom  we  catch  the 
trick  of  thought  and  turn  of  phrase,  or  from 
some  preconceived  view  of  what  the  public  will 
prefer.  It  is  to  the  young  and  strong  I  say: 
Watch  vigilantly  every  phrase  you  write,  and 


32  Success  in  Literature. 

assure  yourself  that  it  expresses  what  you 
mean;  watch  vigilantly  every  thought  you  ex- 
press, and  assure  yourself  that  it  is  yours,  not 
another's;  you  may  share  it  with  another,  but 
you  must  not  adopt  it  from  him  for  the  none  3. 
Of  course,  if  you  are  writing  humorously  or 
dramatically,  you  will  not  be  expected  to  write 
your  own  serious  opinions.  Humor  may  take 
its  utmost  licence,  yet  be  sincere.  The  dra- 
matic genius  may  incarnate  itself  in  a  hundred 
shapes,  yet  in  each  it  will  speak  what  it  feels 
to  be  the  truth.  If  you  are  imaginatively  rep- 
resenting the  feelings  of  another,  as  in  some 
playful  exaggeration  or  some  dramatic  persona- 
tion, the  truth  required  of  you  is  imaginative 
truth,  not  your  personal  views  and  feelings. 
But  when  you  write  in  your  own  person  you 
must  be  rigidly  veracious,  neither  pretending  to 
admire  what  you  do  not  admire,  or  to  despise 
what  in  secret  you  rather  like,  nor  surcharging 
your  admiration  and  enthusiasm  to  bring  you 
into  unison  with  the  public  chorus.  This  vigi- 
lance may  render  Literature  more  laborious; 
but  no  one  ever  supposed  that  success  was  to 
be  had  on  easy  terms ;  and  if  you  only  write  one 
sincere  page  where  you  might  have  written 
twenty  insincere  pages,  the  one  page  is  worth 
writing — it  is  Literature. 


The  Principle  of  Sincerity.  133 

Sincerity  is  not  only  effective  and  honorable, 
it  is  also  much  less  difficult  than  is  commonly 
supposed.  To  take  a  trifling  example:  If  for 
some  reason  I  cannot,  or  do  not,  choose  to  verify 
a  quotation  which  may  be  useful  to  my  purpose, 
what  is  to  prevent  my  saying  that  the  quotation 
is  taken  at  second-hand  ?  It  is  true,  if  my  quo- 
tations are  for  the  most  part  second-hand  and 
are  acknowledged  as  such,  my  erudition  will  ap- 
pear scanty.  But  it  will  only  appear  what  it 
is.  Why  should  I  pretend  to  an  erudition 
which  is  not  mine?  Sincerity  forbids  it. 
Prudence  whispers  that  the  pretence  is,  after 
all,  vain,  because  those,  and  those  alone,  who 
can  rightly  estimate  erudition  will  infallibly  de- 
tect my  pretence,  whereas  those  whom  I  hive 
deceived  were  not  worth  deceiving.  Yet  in 
spite  of  Sincerity  and  Prudence,  how  shame- 
lessly men  compile  second-hand  references,  and 
display  in  borrowed  foot-notes  a  pretence  of  la- 
bor and  of  accuracy !  I  mention  this  merely 
to  show  how,  even  in  the  humbler  class  of  com- 
pilers, the  Principle  of  Sincerity  may  find  fit 
illustrations,  and  how  honest  work,  even  in  ref- 
erences, belongs  to  the  same  category  as  honest 
work  in  philosophy  or  poetry. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE   PRINCIPLE  OF  BEAUTY. 

It  is  not  enough  that  a  man  has  clearness  of 
Vision,  and  reliance  on  Sincerity,  he  must  also 
have  the  art  of  Expression,  or  he  will  remain 
obscure.  Many  have  had 

"  The  visionary  eye,  the  faculty  to  see 
The  thing  that  hath  been  as  the  thing  which  is," 

but  either  from  native  defect,  or  the  mistaken 
bias  of  education,  have  been  frustrated  in  the 
attempt  to  give  their  visions  beautiful  or  intel- 
ligible shape.  The  art  which  could  give  them 
shape  is  doubtless  intimately  dependent  on 
clearness  of  eye  and  sincerity  of  purpose,  but 
it  is  also  something  over  and  above  these,  and 
j  comes  from  an  organic  aptitude  not  less  special, 
''  when  possessed  with  fulness,  than  the  aptitude 
for  music  or  drawing.  Any  instructed  person 
can  write,  as  any  one  can  learn  to  draw;  but  to 
write  well,  to  express  ideas  with  felicity  and 
force,  is  not  an  accomplishment  but  a  talent. 
The  power  of  seizing  unapparent  relations  of 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  135 

things  is  not  always  conjoined  with  the  power 
of  selecting  the  fittest  verbal  symbols  by  which 
they  can  be  made  apparent  to  others :  the  one 
is  the  power  of  the  thinker,  the  other  the  power 
of  the  writer. 

"  Style,"  says  De  Quincey,  "  has  two  separate 
functions — first,  to  brighten  the  intelligibility 
of  a  subject  which  is  obscure  to  the  understand- 
ing; secondly,  to  regenerate  the  normal  power 
and  impressiveness  of  a  subject  which  has  be- 
come dormant  to  the  sensibilities  .  .  .  "De- 
caying lineaments  are  to  be  retraced,  and  faded 
coloring  to  be  refreshed."  To  effect  these  pur- 
poses we  require  a  rich  verbal  memory  from 
which  to  select  the  symbols  best  fitted  to  call 
up  images  in  the  readers  mind,  and  we  also  re- 
quire the  delicate  selective  instinct  to  guide  us 
in  the  choice  and  arrangement  of  those  symbols, 
so  that  the  rhythm  and  cadence  may  agreeably 
attune  the  mind,  rendering  it  receptive  to  the 
impressions  meant  to  be  communicated.  A  co- 
pious verbal  memory,  like  a  copious  memory  of 
facts,  is  only  one  source  of  power,  and  without 
the  high  controlling  faculty  of  the  artist  may 
lead  to  diffusive  indecision.  Just  as  one  man, 
gifted  with  keen  insight,  will  from  a  small 
stock  of  facts  extricate  unapparent  relations  to 


136  Success  in  Literature. 

which  others,  rich  in  knowledge,  have  been 
blind;  so  will  a  writer  gifted  with  a  fine  in- 
stinct select  from  a  narrow  range  of  phrases 
symbols  of  beauty  and  of  power  utterly  beyond 
the  reach  of  commonplace  minds.  It  is  often 
considered,  both  by  writers  and  readers,  th?.t 
fine  language  makes  fine  writers;  yet  no  one 
supposes  that  fine  colors  make  a  fine  painter. 
The  copia  verborum  is  often  a  weakness  and  a 
snare.  As  Arthur  Helps  says,  men  use  several 
epithets  in  the  hope  that  one  of  them  may  fit. 
But  the  artist  knows  which  epithet  does  fit, 
usss  that,  and  rejects  the  rest.  The  character- 
/  istic  weakness  of  bad  writers  is  inaccuracy: 
their  symbols  do  not  adequately  express  their 
ideas.  Pause  but  for  a  moment  over  their  sen- 
tences, and  you  perceive  that  they  are  using 
language  at  random,  the  choice  being  guided 
rather  by  some  indistinct  association  of  phrases, 
or  some  broken  echoes  of  familiar  sounds,  than 
by  any  selection  of  words  to  represent  ideas. 
I  read  the  other  day  of  the  truck  system  being 
"  rampant  "  in  a  certain  district ;  and  every  day 
we  meet  with  similar  echoes  of  familiar  words 
which  betray  the  flaccid  condition  of  the  writ- 
er's mind  drooping  under  the  labor  of  expres- 
sion. 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  1 37 

Except  in  the  rare  cases  of  great  dynamic 
thinkers  whose  thoughts  are  as  turning-points 
in  the  history  of  our  race,  it  is  by  Style  that 
writers  gain  distinction,  by  Style  they  secure 
their  immortality.  In  a  lower  sphere  many  are 
remarked  as  writers  although  they  may  lay  no 
claim  to  distinction  as  thinkers,  if  they  have 
the  faculty  of  felicitously  expressing  the  ideas 
of  others;  and  many  who  are  really  remarkable 
as  thinkers  gain  but  slight  recognition  from  the 
public,  simply  because  in  them  the  faculty  of 
expression  is  feeble.  In  proportion  as  the  work 
passes  from  the  sphere  of  passionless  intelli- 
gence to  that  of  impassioned  intelligence,  from 
the  region  of  demonstration  to  the  region  of 
emotion,  the  art  of  Style  becomes  more  com- 
plex, its  necessity  more  imperious.  But  even  in 
Philosophy  and  Science  the  art  is  both  subtle 
and  necessary;  the  choice  and  arrangement  of 
the  fitting  symbols,  though  less  difficult  than 
in  Art,  is  quite  indispensable  to  success.  If 
the  distinction  which  I  formerly  drew  between 
the  Scientific  and  the  Artistic  tendencies  be  ac- 
cepted, it  will  disclose  a  corresponding  differ- 
ence in  the  Style  which  suits  a  ratiocinative  ex- 
position fixing  attention  on  abstract  relations, 
and  an  emotive  exposition  fixing  attention  on 


138  Success  in  Literature. 

objects  as  related  to  the  feelings.  We  do  not 
expect  the  scientific  writer  to  stir  our  emotions, 
otherwise  than  by  the  secondary  influences 
which  arise  from  our  awe  and  delight  at  the 
unveiling  of  new  truths.  In  his  own  researches 
he  should  extricate  himself  from  the  perturbing 
influences  of  emotion,  and  consequently  he 
should  protect  us  from  such  suggestions  in  his 
exposition.  Feeling  too  often  smites  intellect 
with  blindness,  and  intellect  too  often  paralyses 
the  free  play  of  emotion,  not  to  call  for  a  de- 
cisive separation  of  the  two.  But  this  separa- 
tion is  no  ground  for  the  disregard  of  Style  in 
works  of  pure  demonstration — as  we  shall  see 
by-and-by. 

The  Principle  of  Beauty  is  only  another 
name  for  Style,  which  is  an  art,  incommunica- 
ble as  are  all  other  arts,  but  like  them  subor- 

, :  dinated  to  laws  founded  on  psychological  con- 
ditions. The  laws  constitute  the  Philosophy  of 
Criticism;  and  I  shall  have  to  ask  the  reader's 
indulgence  if  for  the  first  time  I  attempt  to  ex- 
pound them  scientifically  in  the  chapter  to 
which  the  present  is  only  an  introduction.  A 
knowledge  of  these  laws,  even  presuming  them 
to  be  accurately  expounded,  will  no  more  give 

"i     a  writer  the  power  of  felicitous  expression  than 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  139 

a  knowledge  of  the  laws  of  color,  perspective, 
and  proportion  will  enable  a  critic  to  paint  a 
picture.  But  all  good  writing  must  conform 
to  these  laws;  all  bad  writing  will  be  found  to 
violate  them.  And  the  utility  of  the  knowledge 
will  be  that  of  a  constant  monitor,  warning  the 
artist  of  the  errors  into  which  he  has  slipped, 
or  into  which  he  may  slip  if  unwarned. 

How  is  it  that  while  every  one  acknowledges 
the  importance  of  Style,  and  numerous  critics 
from  Quinctilian  and  Longinus  down  to  Quar- 
terly Eeviewers  have  written  upon  it,  very  little 
has  been  done  towards  a  satisfactory  establish- 
ment of  principles?  Is  it  not  partly  because 
the  critics  have  seldom  held  the  true  purpose  of 
Style  steadily  before  their  eyes,  and  still  sel- 
domer  justified  their  canons  by  deducing  them 
from  psychological  conditions?  To  my  appre- 
hension they  seem  to  have  mistaken  the  real 
sources  of  influence,  and  have  fastened  atten- 
tion upon  some  accidental  or  collateral  details, 
instead  of  tracing  the  direct  connection  between 
effects  and  causes.  Misled  by  the  splendor  of 
some  great  renown  they  have  concluded  that  to 
write  like  Cicero  or  to  paint  like  Titian  must 
be  the  pathway  to  success ;  which  is  true  in  one 
sense,  and  profoundly  false  as  they  understand 


140  Success  in  Literature. 

it.     One  pestilent  contagious  error  issued  from 
this  misconception,  namely,  that  all  maxims 
confirmed  by  the  practice  of  the  great  artists 
must  be  maxims  for  the  art;  although  a  close 
examination  might  reveal  that  the  practice  of 
these  artists  may  have  been  the  result  of  their 
peculiar  individualities  or  of  the  state  of  cul- 
ture at  their  epoch.     A  true  Philosophy  of  (Crit- 
icism would  exhibit  in  how  far  such  maxims 
were  universal,  as  founded  on  laws  of  human 
nature,  and  in  how  far  adaptations  to  particu- 
lar individualities.       A  great  talent  will  dis- 
cover new  methods.     A  great  success  ought  to 
put  us  on  the  track  of  new  principles.     But  the 
I  fundamental  laws  of  Style,  resting  on  the  truths 
;  of  human  nature,  may  be  illustrated,  they  can- 
'  not  be  guaranteed  by  any  individual  success. 
Moreover,  the  strong  individuality  of  the  artist 
will  create  special  modifications  of  the  laws  to 
suit  himself,  making  that  excellent  or  endurable 
which  in  other  hands  would  be  intolerable.     If 
the  purpose  of  Literature  be  the  sincere  expres- 
sion of  the  individual's  own  ideas  and  feelings 
it  is  obvious  that  the  cant  about  the  "  best  mod- 
els "  tends  to  pervert  and  obstruct  that  expres- 
sion.    Unless  a  man  thinks  and  feels  precisely 
after  the  manner  of  Cicero  and  Titian  it  is 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  141 

manifestly  wrong  for  him  to  express  himself  in 
their  way.  He  may  study  in  them  the  princi- 
ples of  effect,  and  try  to  surprise  some  of  their 
secrets,  but  he  should  resolutely  shun  all  imita- 
tion of  them.  They  ought  to  be  illustrations 
not  authorities,  studies  not  models. 

The  fallacy  about  models  is  seen  at  once  if 
we  ask  this  simple  question :  Will  the  practice 
of  a  great  writer  justify  a  solecism  in  grammar 
or  a  confusion  in  logic?  No.  Then  why 
should  it  justify  any  other  detail  not  to  be  rec- 
onciled with  universal  truth?  If  we  are  forced 
to  invoke  the  arbitration  of  reason  in  the  one 
case,  we  must  do  so  in  the  other.  Unless  we  set 
aside  the  individual  practice  whenever  it  is  ir- 
reconcilable with  general  principles,  we  shall  be 
unable  to  discriminate  in  a  successful  work 
those  merits  which  secured  from  those  demerits 
which  accompanied  success.  Now  this  is  pre- 
cisely the  condition  in  which  Criticism  has  al- 
ways been.  It  has  been  formal  instead  of  being 
psychological:  it  has  drawn  its  maxims  from 
the  works  of  successful  artists,  instead  of  ascer- 
taining the  psychological  principles  involved  in 
the  effects  of  those  works.  When  the  perplexed 
dramatist  called  down  curses  on  the  man  who 
invented  fifth  acts,  he  never  thought  of  escaping 


142  Success  in  Literature. 

from  his  tribulation  by  writing  a  play  in  four 
acts;  the  formal  canon  which  made  five  acts 
indispensable  to  a  tragedy  was  drawn  from  the 
practice  of  great  dramatists,  but  there  was  no 
demonstration  of  any  psychological  demand  on 
the  part  of  the  audience  for  precisely  five  acts.* 
Although  no  instructed  mind  will  for  a  mo- 
ment doubt  the  immense  advantage  of  the 
stimulus  and  culture  derived  from  a  reverent 
familiarity  with  the  works  of  our  great  pre- 
decessors and  contemporaries,  there  is  a  per- 
nicious error  which  has  been  fostered  by 
many  instructed  minds,  rising  out  of  their 
reverence  for  greatness  and  their  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  ends  of  Literature.  This  error 
is  the  notion  of  "models,"  and  of  fixed 
canons  drawn  from  the  practice  of  great 
artists.  It  substitutes  Imitation  for  Inven- 
tion; reproduction  of  old  types  instead  of 
the  creation  of  new.  There  is  more  bad  than 
good  work  produced  in  consequence  of  the  as- 
siduous following  of  models.  And  we  shall 
seldom  be  very  wide  of  the  mark  if  in  our  esti- 
mation of  youthful  productions  we  place  more 

*English  critics  are  much  less  pedantic  in  adherence  to 
"rules"  than  the  French,  yet  when,  many  years  ago,  there 
appeared  a  tragedy  in  three  acts,  and  without  a  death,  these 
innovations  were  considered  inadmissible;  and  if  the  success 
of  the  work  had  been  such  as  to  elicit  critical  discussion,  the 
necessity  of  five  acts  and  a  death  would  doubtless  have  been 
generally  insisted  on. 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  143 

reliance  on  their  departures  from  what  has  been 
already  done,  than  on  their  resemblances  to  the 
best  artists.  An  energetic  crudity,  even  a  rio- 
tous absurdity,  has  more  promise  in  it  than  a 
clever  and  elegant  mediocrity,  because  it  shows 
that  the  young  man  is  speaking  out  of  his  own 
heart,  and  struggling  to  express  himself  in  his 
own  way  rather  than  in  the  way  he  finds  in 
other  men's  books.  The  early  works  of  orig- 
inal writers  are  usually  very  bad;  then  succeeds 
a  short  interval  of  imitation  in  which  the  in- 
fluence of  some  favorite  author  is  distinctly 
traceable ;  but  this  does  not  last  long,  the  native 
independence  of  the  mind  reasserts  itself,  and 
although  perhaps  academic  and  critical  de- 
mands are  somewhat  disregarded,  so  that  the  \ 
original  writer  on  account  of  his  very  originality 
receives  but  slight  recognition  from  the  authori-, 
ties,  nevertheless  if  there  is  any  real  power  in 
the  voice  it  soon  makes  itself  felt  in  the  world. 
There  is  one  word  of  counsel  I  would  give  to 
young  authors,  which  is  that  they  should  be 
humbly  obedient  to  the  truth  proclaimed  by 
their  own  souls,  and  haughtily  indifferent  to  the 
remonstrances  of  critics  founded  solely  on  any 
departure  from  the  truths  expressed  by  others. 


144  Success  in  Literature. 

It  by  no  means  follows  that  because  a  work  is 
unlike  works  that  have  gone  before  it,  therefore 
it  is  excellent  or  even  tolerable ;  it  may  be  orig- 
inal in  error  or  in  ugliness;  but  one  thing  is 
certain,  that  in  proportion  to  its  close  fidelity 
to  the  matter  and  manner  of  existing  works  will 
be  its  intrinsic  worthlessness.  And  one  of  the 
severest  assaults  on  the  fortitude  of  an  unac- 
knowledged writer  comes  from  the  knowledge 
that  his  critics,  with  rare  exceptions,  will  judge 
his  work  in  reference  to  pre-existing  models, 
and  not  in  reference  to  the  ends  of  Literature 
and  the  laws  of  human  nature.  He  knows  that 
he  will  be  compared  with  artists  whom  he 
ought  not  to  resemble  if  his  work  have  truth 
and  originality;  and  finds  himself  teased  with 
disparaging  remarks  which  are  really  compli- 
ments in  their  objections.  He  can  comfort 
himself  by  his  trust  in  truth  and  the  sincerity 
of  his  own  work.  He  may  also  draw  strength 
from  the  reflection  that  the  public  and  posterity 
may  cordially  appreciate  the  work  in  which  con- 
stituted authorities  see  nothing  but  failure. 
The  history  of  Literature  abounds  in  examples 
of  critics  being  entirely  at  fault — missing  the 
old  familiar  landmarks,  these  guides  at  once 
get  up  a  shout  of  warning  that  the  path  has  been 
missed. 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  145 

Very  noticeable  is  the  fact  that  of  the  thou- 
sands who  have  devoted  years  to  the  study  of 
the  classics,  especially  to  the  "  niceties  '  of 
phrase "  and  "  chastity  of  composition,"  so 
much  prized  in  these  classics,  very  few  have 
learned  to  write  with  felicity,  and  not  many 
with  accuracy.  Native  incompetence  has 
doubtless  largely  influenced  this  result  in  men 
who  are  insensible  to  the  nicer  shades  of  dis- 
tinction in  terms,  and  want  the  subtle  sense  of 
congruity;  but  the  false  plan  of  studying 
"  models "  without  clearly  understanding  the 
psychological  conditions  which  the  effects  in- 
volve, without  seeing  why  great  writing  is  ef- 
fective, and  where  it  is  merely  individual  ex- 
pression, has  injured  even  vigorous  minds  and 
paralysed  the  weak.  From  a  similar  mistake 
hundreds  have  deceived  themselves  in  trying  to 
catch  the  trick  of  phrase  peculiar  to  some  dis- 
tinguished contemporary.  In  vain  do  they 
imitate  the  Latinisms  and  antitheses  of  John- 
son, the  epigrammatic  sentences  of  Macaulay, 
the  colloquial  ease  of  Thackeray,  the  cumula- 
tive pomp  of  Milton,  the  diffusive  play  of  De 
Quincey:  a  few  friendly  or  ignorant  reviewers 
may  applaud  it  as  "  brilliant  writing,"  but  the 
public  remains  unmoved.  It  is  imitation,  and 
as  such  it  is  lifeless. 


146  Success  in  Literature. 

We  see  at  once  the  mistake  directly  we  under- 
stand that  a  genuine  style  is  the  living  body  of 
thought,  not  a  costume  that  can  be  put  on  and 
off;  it  is  the  expression  of  the  writer's  mind;  it 
is  not  less  the  incarnation  of  his  thoughts  in 
verbal  symbols  than  a  picture  is  the  painter's 
incarnation  of  his  thoughts  in  symbols  of  form 
and  color.  A  man  may,  if  it  please  him,  dress 
his  thoughts  in  the  tawdry  splendor  of  a  mas- 
querade. But  this  is  no  more  Literature  than 
the  masquerade  is  Life. 

No  Style  can  be  good  that  is  not  sincere.  It 
must  be  the  expression  of  its  author's  mind. 
There  are,  of  course,  certain  elements  of  com- 
position which  must  be  mastered  as  a  dancer 
learns  his  steps,  but  the  style  of  the  writer,  like 
the  grace  of  the  dancer,  is  only  made  effective 
by  such  mastery;  it  springs  from  a  deeper 
source.  Initiation  into  the  rules  of  construc- 
tion will  save  us  from  some  gross  errors  of  com- 
position, but  it  will  not  make  a  style.  Still  less 
will  imitation  of  another's  manner  make  one. 
In  our  day  there  are  many  who  imitate  Macau- 
lay's  short  sentences,  iterations,  antitheses, 
geographical  and  historical  illustrations,  and 
eighteenth  century  diction,  but  who  accepts 
them  as  Macaulays  ?  They  cannot  seize  the  se- 
cret of  his  charm,  because  that  charm  lies  in  the 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  147 

felicity  of  his  talent,  not  in  the  structure  of  his 
sentences;  in  the  fulness  of  his  knowledge,, not 
in  the  character  of  his  illustrations.  Other 
men  aim  at  ease  and  vigor  by  discarding  Latin- 
isms,  and  admitting  colloquialisms,  but  vigor 
and  ease  are  not  to  be  had  on  recipe.  No  study 
of  models,  no  attention  to  rules,  will  give  the 
easy  turn,  the  graceful  phrase,  the  simple  word, 
the  fervid  movement,  or  the  large  clearness;  a 
picturesque  talent  will  express  itself  in  concrete 
images;  a  genial  nature  will  smile  in  pleasant 
turns  and  innuendoes;  a  rapid,  unhesitating, 
imperious  mind  will  deliver  its  quick,  incisive 
phrases;  a  full  deliberating  mind  will  overflow 
in  ample  paragraphs  laden  with  the  weight  of 
parentheses  and  qualifying  suggestions.  The 
style  which  is  good  in  one  case  would  be  vicious 
in  another.  The  broken  rhythm  which  increases 
the  energy  of  one  style  would  ruin  the  largo  of 
another.  Both  are  excellencies  where  both  are 
natural. 

We  are  always  disagreeably  impressed  by  an 
obvious  imitation  of  the  manner  of  another, 
because  we  feel  it  to  be  an  insincerity,  and  also 
because  it  withdraws  our  attention  from  the 
thing  said  to  the  way  of  saying  it.  And  here 
lies  the  great  lesson  writers  have  to  learn — 


148  Success  in  Literature. 

namely,  that  they  should  think  of  the  im- 
mediate purpose  of  their  writing,  which  is  to 
convey  truths  and  emotions,  in  symbols  and 
images,  intelligible  and  suggestive.  The  racket- 
player  keeps  his  eye  on  the  ball  he  is  to  strike, 
not  on  the  racket  with  which  he  strikes.  If  the 
writer  sees  vividly,  and  will  say  honestly  what 
he  sees,  and  how  he  sees  it,  he  may  want  some- 
thing of  the  grace  and  felicity  of  other  men, 
but  he  will  have  all  the  strength  and  felicity 
with  which  nature  has  endowed  him.  More  than 
that  he  cannot  attain,  and  he  will  fall  very  short. 
of  it  in  snatching  at  the  grace  which  is  another's. 
Do  what  he  will,  he  cannot  escape  from  the  in- 
firmities of  his  own  mind  :  the  affectation, 
arrogance,  ostentation,  hesitation,  native  in  the 
man,  will  taint  his  style,  no  matter  how 
closely  he  may  copy  the  manner  of  another. 
For  evil  and  for  good,  le  style  est  de  I'homme 
meme. 

The  French  critics,  who  are  singularly  ser- 
vile to  all  established  reputations,  and  whose 
unreasoning  idolatry  of  their  own  classics  is 
one  of  the  reasons  why  their  Literature  is  not 
richer,  are  fond  of  declaring  with  magisterial 
emphasis  that  the  rules  of  good  taste  and  the 
canons  of  style  were  fixed  once  and  for  ever  by 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  149 

their  great  writers  in  the  seventeenth  century. 
The  true  ambition  of  every  modern  is  said  to 
be  by  careful  study  of  these  models  to  approach 
(though  with  no  hope  of  equalling)  their  chas- 
tity and  elegance.  That  a  writer  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  should  express  himself  in  the 
manner  which  was  admirable  in  the  seventeenth 
is  an  absurdity  which  needs  only  to  be  stated. 
It  is  not  worth  refuting.  But  it  never  presents 
itself  thus  to'the  French.  In  their  minds  it  is 
a  lingering  remnant  of  that  older  superstition 
which  believed  the  Ancients  to  have  discovered 
all  wisdom,  so  that  if  we  could  only  surprise 
the  secret  of  Aristotle's  thoughts  and  clearly 
comprehend  the  drift  of  Plato's  theories  (which 
unhappily  was  not  clear)  we  should  compass  all 
knowledge.  How  long  this  superstition  lasted 
cannot  accurately  be  settled;  perhaps  it  is  not 
quite  extinct  even  yet;  but  we  know  how  little 
the  most  earnest  students  succeeded  in  surpris- 
ing the  secrets  of  the  universe  by  reading  Greek 
treatises,  and  how  much  by  studying  the 
universe  itself.  Advancing  Science  daily  dis- 
credits the  superstition;  yet  the  advance  of 
Criticism  has  not  yet  wholly  discredited  the 
parallel  superstition  in  Art.  The  earliest 
thinkers  are  no  longer  considered  the  wisest, 


150  Success  in  Literature. 

but  the  earliest  artists  are  still  proclaimed 
the  finest.  Even  those  who  do  not  believe 
in  this  superiority  are,  for  the  most  part, 
overawed  by  tradition,  and  dare  not  openly 
question  the  supremacy  of  works  which  in 
their  private  convictions  hold  a  very  subordi- 
nate rank.  And  this  reserve  is  encouraged  by 
the  intemperate  scorn  of  those  who  question  the 
supremacy  without  having  the  knowledge  or  the 
sympathy  which  could  fairly  appreciate  the 
earlier  artists.  Attacks  on  the  classics  by  men 
ignorant  of  the  classical  languages  tend  to  per- 
petuate the  superstition. 

But  be  the  merit  of  the  classics,  ancient  and 
modern,  what  it  may,  no  writer  can  become  a 
classic  by  imitating  them.  The  principle  of 
Sincerity  here  ministers  to  the  principle  of 
Beauty  by  forbidding  imitation  and  enforcing 
rivalry.  Write  what  you  can,  and  if  you  have 
the  grace  of  felicitous  expression  or  the  power 
of  energetic  expression  your  style  will  be  ad- 
mirable and  admired.  At  any  rate,  see  that  it 
be  your  own,  and  not  another's;  on  no  other 
terms  will  the  world  listen  to  it.  You  cannot  be 
eloquent  by  borrowing  from  the  opulence  of 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  151 

another;  you  cannot  be  humorous  by  mimick- 
ing the  whims  of  another ;  what  was  a  pleasant 
smile  dimpling  his  features  becomes  a  grimace 
on  yours. 

It  will  not  be  supposed  that  I  would  have  the 
great  writers  disregarded,  as  if  nothing  were  to 
be  learned  from  them;  but  the  study  of  great 
writers  should  be  the  study  of  general  principles 
as  illustrated  or  revealed  in  these  writers;  and 
if  properly  pursued  it  will  of  itself  lead  to  a 
condemnation  of  the  notion  of  models.  What 
we  may  learn  from  them  is  a  nice  discrimina- 
tion of  the  symbols  which  intelligibly  express 
the  shades  of  meaning  and  kindle  emotion. 
The  writer  wishes  to  give  his  thoughts  a  liter- 
ary form!.  This  is  for  others,  not  for  himself; 
consequently  he  must,  before  all  things,  desire 
to  be  intelligible,  and  to  be  so  he  must  adapt 
his  expressions  to  the  mental  condition  of  his 
audience.  If  he  employs  arbitrary  symbols, 
such  as  old  words  in  new  and  unexpected  senses, 
he  may  be  clear  as  daylight  to  himself,  but  to 
others  dark  as  fog.  And  the  difficulty  of  origi- 
nal writing  lies  in  this,  that  what  is  new  and  N; 
individual  must  find  expression  in  old  symbols. 
This  difficulty  can  only  be  mastered  by  a  pecu- 
liar talent,  strengthened  and  rendered  nimble  by 
practice,  and  the  commerce  with  original  minds. 


152  Success  in  Literature, 

Great  writers  should  be  our  companions  if  we 
would  learn  to  write  greatly;  but  no  familiar- 
ity with  their  manner  will  supply  the  place  of 
native  endowment.  Writers  are  born,  no  less 
than  poets,  and  like  poets,  they  learn  to  make 
their  native  gifts  effective.  Practice,  aiding 
their  vigilant  sensibility,  teaches  them,  perhaps 
unconsciously,  certain  methods  of  effective  pre- 
sentation, how  one  arrangement  of  words 
carries  with  it  more  power  than  another,  how 
familiar  and  concrete  expressions  are  demanded 
in  one  place,  and  in  another  place  abstract  ex- 
pressions unclogged  with  disturbing  sugges- 
tions. Every  author  thus  silently  amasses  a 
store  of  empirical  rules,  furnished  by  his  own 
practice,  and  confirmed  by  the  practice  of 
others.  A  true  Philosophy  of  Criticism  would 
reduce  these  empirical  rules-  to  science  by  rang- 
ing them  under  psychological  laws,  thus  demon- 
strating the  validity  of  the  rules,  not  in  virtue 
of  their  having  been  employed  by  Cicero  or 
Addison,  by  Burke  or  Sydney  Smith,  but  in 
virtue  of  their  conformity  with  the  constancies 
of  human  nature. 

The  importance  of  Style  is  generally  unsus- 
pected by  philosophers  and  men  of  science,  who 
are  quite  aware  of  its  advantage  in  all  depart- 
ments of  belles  lettres;  and  if  you  allude  in  their 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  153 

presence  to  the  deplorably  defective  presenta- 
tion of  the  ideas  in  some  work  distinguished  for 
its  learning,  its  profundity  or  its  novelty,  it  is 
probable  that  you  will  be  despised  as  a  frivolous 
setter  up  of  manner  over  matter,  a  light-minded 
dilletante,  unfitted  for  the  simple  austerities  of 
science.  But  this  is  itself  a  light-minded  con- 
tempt ;  a  deeper  insight  would  change  the  tone, 
and  help  to  remove  the  disgraceful  slovenliness 
and  feebleness  of  composition  which  deface  the 
majority  of  grave  works,  except  those  written 
by  Frenchmen  who  have  been  taught  that  com- 
position is  an  art  and  that  no  writer  may  neg- 
lect it.  In  England  and  Germany,  men  who 
will  spare  no  labor  in  research,  grudge  all  labor 
in  style;  a  morning  is  cheerfully  devoted  to 
verifying  a  quotation,  by  one  who  will  not  spare 
ten  minutes  to  reconstruct  a  clumsy  sentence; 
a  reference  is  sought  with  ardor,  an  appropriate 
expression  in  lieu  of  the  inexact  phrase  which 
first  suggests  itself  does  not  seem  worth  seeking. 
What  are  we  to  say  to  a  man  who  spends  a 
quarter's  income  on  a  diamond  pin  which  he 
sticks  in  a  greasy  cravat  ?  a  man  who  calls  pub- 
lic attention  on  him,  and  appears  in  a  slovenly 
undress  ?  Am  I  to  bestow  applause  on  some 


164  Success  in  Literature. 

insignificant  parade  of  erudition,  and  withhold 
blame  from  the  stupidities  of  style  which  sur- 
round it? 

Had  there  been  a  clear  understanding  of 
Style  as  the  living  body  of  thought,  and  not 
its  "  dress/'  which  might  be  more  or  less  orna- 
mental, the  error  I  am  noticing  would  not 
have  spread  so  widely.  But,  naturally,  when 
men  regarded  the  grace  of  style  as  mere  grace 
of  manner,  and  not  as  the  delicate  precision  giv- 
ing form  and  relief  to  matter — as  mere  orna- 
ment, stuck  on  to  arrest  incurious  eyes,  and  not 
as  effective  expression — their  sense  of  the 
deeper  value- of  matter  made  them  despise  such 
aid.  A  clearer  conception  would  have  rectified 
this  error.  The  matter  is  confluent  with  the 
manner;  and  only  through  the  style  caa 
thought  reach  the  reader's  mind.  If  the 
manner  is  involved,  awkward,  abrupt,  obscure, 
the  reader  will  either  be  oppressed  with  a  con- 
fused sense  of  cumbrous  material  which  awaits 
an  artist  to  give  it  shape,  or  he  will  have  the 
labor  thrown  upon  him  of  extricating  the  ma- 
terial and  reshaping  it  in  his  own  mind. 

How  entirely  men  misconceive  the  relation 
of  style  to  thought  may  be  seen  in  the  replies 
they  make  when  their  writing  is  objected  to, 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  155 

or  in  the  ludicrous  attempts  of  clumsy  playful- 
ness and  tawdry  eloquence  when  they  wish  to 
be  regarded  as  writers. 

11  Le  style  le  moins  noble  a  pourtant  sa  noblesse," 

and  the  principle  of  Sincerity,  not  less  than 
the  suggestions  of  taste,  will  preserve  the  in- 
tegrity of  each  style.  A  philosopher,  an  in- 
vestigator, an  historian,  or  a  moralist  so  far 
from  being  required  to  present  the  graces  of  a 
wit,  an  essayist,  a  pamphleteer,  or  a  novelist, 
would  be  warned  off  such  ground  by  the 
necessity  of  expressing  himself  sincerely.  Pas- 
cal, Biot,  Buffon,  or  Laplace  are  examples  of 
the  clearness  and  beauty  with  which  ideas  may 
be  presented  wearing  all  the  graces  of  fine 
literature,  and  losing  none  of  the  severity  of 
science.  Bacon,  also,  having  an  opulent  and 
active  intellect,  spontaneously  expressed  himself 
in  forms  of  various  excellence.  But  what  a 
pitiable  contrast  is  presented  by  Kant!  It  is 
true  that  Kant  having  a  much  narrower  range 
of  sensibility  could  have  no  such  ample  resource 
of  expression,  and  he  was  wise  in  not  attempt- 
ing to  rival  the  splendor  of  the  Novum  Or- 
ganum;  but  he  was  not  simply  unwise,  he  was 
extremely  culpable  in  sending  forth  his 


156  Success  in  Literature. 

thoughts  as  so  much  raw  material  which  the 
public  was  invited  to  put  into  shape  as  it  could. 
Had  he  been  aware  that  much  of  his  bad  writ- 
ing was  imperfect  thinking,  and  always  im- 
perfect adaptation  of  means  to  ends,  he  might 
have  been  induced  to  recast  it  into  more  logical 
and  more  intelligible  sentences  which  would 
have  stimulated  the  reader's  mind  as  much  as 
they  now  oppress  it.  Nor  had  Kant  the  excuse 
of  a  subject  too  abstruse  for  clear  presentation. 
The  examples  of  Descartes,  Spinoza,  Hobbes, 
and  Hume  are  enough  to  show  how  such  sub- 
jects can  be  mastered,  and  the  very  implication 
of  writing  a  book  is  that  the  writer  has  master- 
ed his  material  and  can  give  it  intelligible  form- 
A  grave  treatise,  dealing  with  a  narrow  range 
of  subjects  or  moving  amid  severe  abstractions, 
demands  a  gravity  and  severity  of  style  which 
is  dissimilar  to  that  demanded  by  subjects  of 
a  wider  scope  or  more  impassioned  impulse; 
but  abstract  philosophy  has  its  appropriate 
elegance  no  less  than  mathematics.  I  do  not 
mean  that  each  subject  should  necessarily  be 
confined  to  one  special  mode  of  treatment,  in 
the  sense  which  was  understood  when  people 
spoke  of  the  "  dignity  of  history,"  and  so  forth. 
The  style  must  express  the  writer's  mind;  and 


.  The  Principle  of  Beauty.  157 

as  variously  constituted  minds  will  treat  ono 
and  the  same  subject,  there  will  be  varieties  in 
their  styles.  If  a  severe  thinker  be  also  a  man 
of  wit,  like  Bacon,  Hobbes,  Pascal,  or  Galileo, 
the  wit  will  flash  its  sudden  illuminations  on 
the  argument;  but  if  he  be  not  a  man  of  wit, 
and  condescends  to  jest  under  the  impression 
that  by  jesting  he  is  giving  an  airy  grace  to  his 
argument,  we  resent  it  as  an  impertinence. 

I  have  throughout  used  Style  in  the  narrower 
sense  of  expression  rather  than  in  the  wider  y 
sense  of  "  treatment "  which  is  sometimes 
affixed  to  it.  The  mode  of  treating  a  subject 
is  also  no  doubt  the  writer's  or  the  artist's  way 
of  expressing  what  is  in  his  mind,  but  this  is 
Style  in  the  more  general  sense,  and  does  not 
admit  of  being  reduced  to  laws  apart  from  those 
of  Vision  and  Sincerity.  A  man  necessarily 
sees  a  subject  in  a  particular  light — ideal  or 
grotesque,  familiar  or  fanciful,  tragic  or  hum- 
orous. He  may  wander  into  fairy-land,  or  move 
amid  representative  abstractions;  he  may  fol- 
low his  wayward  fancy  in  its  grotesque  combi- 
nations, or  he  may  settle  down  amid  the  homeli- 
est details  of  daily  life.  But  having  chosen  he 
must  be  true  to  his  choice.  He  is  not  allowed 
to  represent  fairy-land  as  if  it  resembled  Wai- 
worth,  nor  to  paint  Walworth  in  the  colors  of 


158  Success  in  Literature. 

Venice.  The  truth  of  consistency  must  be  pre- 
served in  his  treatment,  truth  in  art  meaning 
of  course  only  truth  within  the  limits  of  the 
art;  thus  the  painter  may  produce  the  utmost 
relief  he  can  by  means  of  light  and  shade,  but 
it  is  peremptorily  forbidden  to  use  actual  solidi- 
ties on  a  plane  surface.  He  must  represent  gold 
by  color,  not  by  sticking  gold  on  his  figures.* 
Our  applause  is  greatly  determined  by  our 
sense  of  difficulty  overcome,  and  to  stick  gold 
on  a  picture  is  an  avoidance  of  the  difficulty  of 
painting  it. 

Truth  of  presentation  has  an  inexplicable 
charm  for  us,  and  throws  a  halo  round  even 
ignoble  objects.  A  policeman  idly  standing  at 
the  corner  of  the  street,  or  a  sow  lazily  sleeping 
against  the  sun,  are  not  in  nature  objects  to 
excite  a  thrill  of  delight,  but  a  painter  may, 
by  the  cunning  of  his  art,  represent  them  so 
as  to  delight  every  spectator.  The  same  objects 
represented  by  an  inferior  painter  will  move 
only  a  languid  interest ;  by  a  still  more  inferior 
painter  they  may  be  represented  so  as  to  please 

*This  was  done  with  naivett  by  the  early  painters,  and  it 
really  verv  effective  in  the  p  ctures  of  Gentile  <ia  Fabriano — 
that  Paul  Veronese  of  the  fifteenth  century— as  the  reader 
will  confess  if  he  has  seen  the  "  Adoration  of  the  Magi,"  in 
the  Florence  Academy;  but  it  could  not  be  tolerated  now. 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  159 

none  but  the  most  uncultivated  eye.  Each  spec- 
tator is  charmed  in  proportion  to  his  recogni- 
tion of  a  triumph  over  difficulty  which  is  y 
measured  by  the  degree  of  verisimilitude.  The 
degrees  are  many.  In  the  lowest  the  pictured 
object  is  so  remote  from  the  reality  that  we 
simply  recognise  what  the  artist  meant  to  rep- 
resent. In  like  manner  we  recognise  in  poor 
novels  and  dramas  what  the  authors  mean  to  be 
characters,  rather  than  what  our  experience  of 
life  suggests  as  characteristic. 

Not  only  do  we  apportion  our  applause  ac- 
cording to  the  degree  of  verisimilitude  attained, 
but  also  according  to  the  difficulty  each  in- 
volves. It  is  a  higher  difficulty,  and  implies  a 
nobler  art  to  represent  the  movement  and  com- 
plexity of  life  and  emotion  than  to  catch  the 
fixed  lineaments  of  outward  aspect.  To  paint 
a  policeman  idly  lounging  at  the  street  corner 
with  such  verisimilitude  that  we  are  pleased 
with  the  representation,  admiring  the  solidity 
of  the  figure,  the  texture  of  the  clothes,  and 
the  human  aspect  of  the  features,  is  so  difficult 
that  we  loudly  applaud  the  skill  which  enables 
an  artist  to  imitate  what  in  itself  is  uninterest- 
ing ;  and  if  the  imitation  be  carried  to  a  certain 
degree  of  verisimilitude  the  picture  may  be  of 


160  Siiccess  in  Literature. 

immense  value.  But  no  excellence  of  represen- 
tation can  make  this  high  art.  To  carry  it  into 
the  region  of  high  art,  another  and  far  greater 
difficulty  must  be  overcome;  the  man  must  be 
represented  under  the  strain  of  great  emotion, 
and  we  must  recognise  an  equal  truthfulness  in 
the  subtle  indications  of  great  mental  agitation, 
the  fleeting  characters  of  which  are  far  less 
easy  to  observe  and  to  reproduce,  than  the  sta- 
tionary characters  of  form  and  costume.  We 
may  often  observe  how  the  novelist  or  dramatist 
has  tolerable  success  so  long  as  his  personages 
are  quiet,  or  moved  only  by  the  vulgar  motives 
of  ordinary  life,  and  how  fatally  uninteresting, 
because  unreal,  these  very  personages  become  as 
soon  as  they  are  exhibited  under  the  stress  of 
emotion:  their  language  ceases  at  once  to  be 
truthful,  and  becomes  stagey;  their  conduct  is 
no  longer  recognisable  as  that  of  human  beings 
such  as  we  have  known.  Here  we  note  a  defect 
of  treatment,  a  mingling  of  styles,  arising 
partly  from  defect  of  vision,  and  partly  from  an 
imperfect  sincerity;  and  success  in  art  will 
always  be  found  dependent  on  integrity  of 
style.  The  Dutch  painters,  so  admirable  in 
their  own  style,  would  become  pitiable  on  quit- 
ting it  for  a  higher. 


The  Principle  of  Beauty.  161 

But  I  need  not  enter  at  any  length  upon  this 
subject  of  treatment.  Obviously  a  work  must 
have  charm  or  it  cannot  succeed;  and  the 
charm  will  depend  on  very  complex  conditions 
in  the  artist's  mind.  What  treatment  is  in 
Art,  composition  is  in  Philosophy.  The  general 
conception  of  the  point  of  view,  and  the  skilful 
distribution  of  the  masses,  so  as  to  secure  the 
due  preparation,  development,  and  culmination, 
without  wasteful  prodigality  or  confusing  want 
of  symmetry,  constitute  Composition,  which  is 
to  the  structure  of  a  treatise  what  Style — in  the 
narrower  sense — is  to  the  structure  of  senten- 
ces. How  far  Style  is  reducible  to  law  will  be 
examined  in  the  next  chapter. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  LAWS   OF  STYLE. 

From  what  was  said  in  the  preceding  chap- 
ter, the  reader  will  understand  that  our  present 
inquiry  is  only  into  the  laws  which  regulate  the 
mechanism  of  Style.  In  such  an  analysis  all 
that  constitutes  the  individuality,  the  life,  the 
charm  of  a  great  writer,  must  escape.  But  we 
may  dissect  Style,  as  we  dissect  an  organism, 
and  lay  bare  the  fundamental  laws  by  which 
each  is  regulated.  And  this  analogy  may  indi- 
cate the  utility  of  our  attempt;  the  grace  and 
luminousness  of  a  happy  talent  will  no  more  be 
acquired  by  a  knowledge  of  these  laws,  than  the 
force  and  elasticity  of  a  healthy  organism  will 
be  given  by  a  knowledge  of  anatomy;  but  the 
mistakes  in  Style,  and  the  diseases  of  the  organ- 
ism, may  be  often  avoided,  and  sometimes 
remedied,  by  such  knowledge. 

On  a  subject  like  this,  which  has  for  many 
years  engaged  the  researches  of  many  minds, 
I  shall  not  be  expected  to  bring  forward  dis- 
coveries; indeed,  novelty  would  not  unjustly 


The  Laws  of  Style.  163 

be  suspected  of  fallacy.  The  only  claim  my 
exposition  can  have  on  the  reader's  attention 
is  that  of  being  an  attempt  to  systematise  what 
has  been  hitherto  either  empirical  observation, 
or  the  establishment  of  critical  rules  on  a  false 
basis.  I  know  but  of  one  exception  to  this 
sweeping  censure,  and  that  is  the  essay  on  the 
Philosophy  of  Style,  by  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer/ 
where  for  the  first  time,  I  believe,  the  right 
method  was  pursued  of  seeking  in  psychologi- 
cal conditions  for  the  true  laws  of  expression. 
The  aims  of  Literature  being  instruction  and 
delight,  Style  must  in  varying  degrees  appeal 
to  our  intellect  and  our  sensibilities,  sometimes 
reaching  the  intellect  through  the  presentation 
of  simple  ideas,  and  at  others  through  the  agita- 
ting influence  of  emotions;  sometimes  awaken- 
ing the  sensibilities  through  the  reflexes  of 
ideas;  and  sometimes  through  a  direct  appeal. 
A  truth  may  be  nakedly  expressed  so  as  to  stir 
the  intellect  alone;  or  it  may  be  expressed  in 
terms  which,  without  disturbing  its  clearness, 
may  appeal  to  our  sensibility  by  their  harmony 
or  energy.  It  is  not  possible  to  distinguish  the 
combined  influences  of  clearness,  movement, 


*Spencer's  Enays:  Scientific,  Political,  and  Speculative.    Firit 
Series.    1858. 


164  Success  in  Literature. 

and  harmony,  so  as  to  assign  to  each  its  relative 
effect;  and  if  in  the  ensuing  pages  one  law  is 
isolated  from  another,  this  must  be  understood 
as  an  artifice  inevitable  in  such  investigations. 

There  are  five  laws  under  which  all  the  con- 
ditions of  Style  may  be  grouped. — 1.  The  Law 
of  Economy.  2.  The  Law  of  Simplicity.  3. 
The  Law  of  Sequence.  4.  The  Law  of  Cli- 
max. 5.  The  Law  of  Variety. 

It  would  be  easy  to  reduce  these  five  to  three, 
and  range  all  considerations  under  Economy, 
Climax,  and  Variety ;  or  we  might  amplify  the 
divisions;  but  there  are  reasons  of  convenience 
as  well  as  symmetry  which  give  a  preference  to 
the  five.  I  had  arranged  them  thus  for  conven- 
ience some  years  ago,  and  I  now  find  they  ex- 
press the  equivalence  of  the  two  great  factors 
of  Style — Intelligence  and  Sensibility.  Two 
out  of  the  five,  Economy  and  Simplicity,  more 
specially  derive  their  significance  from  intel- 
lectual needs;  another  two,  Climax  and  Va- 
riety, from  emotional  needs ;  and  between  these 
is  the  Law  of  Sequence,  which  is  intermediate 
in  its  nature,  and  may  be  claimed  with  equal 
justice  by  both.  The  laws  of  force  and  the 
laws  of  pleasure  can  only  be  provisionally  isola- 
ted in  our  inquiry;  in  style  they  are  blended. 


The  Laws  of  Style.  165 

The  following  brief  estimate  of  each  considers 
it  as  an  isolated  principle  undetermined  by  any 
other. 

I.      THE   LAW   OF   ECONOMY. 

Our  inquiry  is  scientific,  not  empirical;  it 
therefore  seeks  the  psychological  basis  for  every 
law,  endeavoring  to  ascertain  what  condition  of 
a  reader's  receptivity  determines  the  law. 
Fortunately  for  us,  in  the  case  of  the  first  and 
most  important  law  the  psychological  basis  is 
extremely  simple,  and  may  be  easily  appreciated 
by  a  reference  to  its  analogue  in  Mechanics. 

What  is  the  first  object  of  a  machine  ?  Ef- 
fective work — vis  viva.  Every  means  by  which 
friction  can  be  reduced,  and  the  force  thus 
economised  be  rendered  available,  necessarily 
solicits  the  constructor's  care.  He  seeks  as  far 
as  possible  to  liberate  the  motion  which  is  ab- 
sorbed in  the  working  of  the  machine,  and  to 
use  it  as  vis  vivai  He  knows  that  every  super- 
fluous detail,  every  retarding  influence,  is  at  the 
cost  of  so  much  power,  and  is  a  mechanical  de- 
fect though  it  may  perhaps  be  an  aesthetic 
beauty  or  a  practical  convenience.  He  may  re- 
tain it  because  of  the  beauty,  because  of  the  con- 
venience, but  he  knows  the  price  of  effective 
power  at  which  it  is  obtained. 


166  Success  in  Literature. 

And  thus  it  stands  with  Style.  The  first 
object  of  a  writer  is  effective  expression,  the 
power  of  communicating  distinct  thoughts  and 
emotional  suggestions.  He  has  to  overcome  the 
friction  of  ignorance  and  preoccupation.  He 
has  to  arrest  a  wandering  attention,  and  to  clear 
away  the  misconceptions  which  cling  around 
verbal  symbols.  Words  are  not  like  iron  and 
wood,  coal  and  water,  invariable  in  their  prop- 
erties, calculable  in  their  effects.  They  are 
mutable  in  their  powers,  deriving  force  and  sub- 
tle variations  of  force  from  very  trifling  changes 
of  position;  coloring  and  colored  by  the 
words  which  precede  and  succeed;  significant 
or  insignificant  from  the  powers  of  rhythm  and 
cadence.  It  is  the  writer's  art  so  to  arrange 
words  that  they  shall  suffer  the  least  possible 
retardation  from  the  inevitable  friction  of  the 
reader's  mind.  The  analogy  of  a  machine  is 
perfect.  In  both  cases  the  object  is  to  secure 
the  maximum  of  disposable  force,  by  diminish- 
ing the  amount  absorbed  in  the  working. 
Obviously,  if  a  reader  is  engaged  in  extricating 
the  meaning  from  a  sentence  which  ought  to 
have  reflected  its  meaning  as  in  a  mirror,  the 
mental  energy  thus  employed  is  abstracted  from 
the  amount  of  force  which  he  has  to  bestow  on 


The  Laws  of  Style.  167 

the  subject;  he  has  mentally  to  form  anew  the 
sentence  which  has  been  clumsily  formed  by  the 
Avriter ;  he  wastes,  on  interpretation  of  the  sym- 
bols, force  which  might  have  been  concentrated 
on  meditation  of  the  propositions.  This  waste 
is  inappreciable  in  writing  of  ordinary  excel- 
lence, and  on  subjects  not  severely  tasking  to 
the  attention;  but  if  inappreciable,  it  is  always 
waste;  and  in  bad  writing,  especially  on  topics 
of  philosophy  and  science,  the  waste  is  impor- 
tant. And  it  is  this  which  greatly  narrows  the 
circle  for  serious  works.  Interest  in  the  sub- 
jects treated  of  may  not  be  wanting;  but  the 
abundant  energy  is  wanting  which  to  the  fa- 
tigue of  consecutive  thinking  will  add  the  labor 
of  deciphering  the  language.  Many  of  us  are 
but  too  familiar  with  the  fatigue  of  reconstruct- 
ing unwieldly  sentences  in  which  the  clauses  are 
not  logically  dependent,  nor  the  terms  free  from 
equivoque;  we  know  what  it  is  to  have  to  hunt 
for  the  meaning  hidden  in  a  maze  of  words; 
and  we  can  understand  the  yawning  indiffer- 
ence which  must  soon  settle  upon  every  reader 
of  such  writing,  unless  he  has  some  strong  ex- 
ternal impulse  or  abundant  energy. 

Economy  dictates  that  the  meaning  should  be 
presented  in  a  form  which  claims  the  least  pos- 
sible attention  to  itself  as  form,  unless  when 


168  Success  in  Literature. 

that  form  is  part  of  the  writer's  object,  and 
when  the  simple  thought  is  less  important  than 
the  manner  of  presenting  it.  And  even  when 
the  manner  is  playful  or  impassioned,  the  law 
of  Economy  still  presides,  and  insists  on  the 
rejection  of  whatever  is  superfluous.  Only  a 
delicate  susceptibility  can  discriminate  a  super- 
fluity in  passages  of  humor  or  rhetoric;  but 
elsewhere  a  very  ordinary  understanding  can 
recognise  the  clauses  and  the  epithets  which  are 
out  of  place,  and  in  excess,  retarding  or  confus- 
ing the  direct  appreciation  of  the  thought.  If 
we  have  written  a  clumsy  or  confused  sentence, 
we  shall  often  find  that  the  removal  of  an  awk- 
ward inversion  liberates  the  idea,  or  that  the 
modification  of  a  cadence  increases  the  effect. 
This  is  sometimes  strikingly  seen  at  the  rehears- 
al of  a  play:  a  passage  which  has  fallen  flat 
upon  the  ear  is  suddenly  brightened  into  effect- 
iveness by  the  removal  of  a  superfluous  phrase, 
which,  by  its  retarding  influence,  had  thwarted 
the  declamatory  crescendo. 

Young  writers  may  learn  something  of  the 
secrets  of  Economy  by  careful  revision  of  their 
own  compositions,  and  by  careful  dissection  of 
passages  selected  both  from  good  and  bad  writ- 
ers. They  have  simply  to  strike  out  every  word, 


The  Laws  of  Style.  169 

every  clause,  and  every  sentence,  the  removal  of 
which  will  not  carry  away  any  of  the  constitu- 
ent elements  of  the  thought.  Having  done  this, 
let  them  compare  the  revised  with  the  unrevised 
passages,  and  see  where  the  excision  has  im- 
proved, and  where  it  has  injured,  the  effect. 
For  Economy,  although  a  primal  law,  is  not  the 
only  law  of  Style.  It  is  subject  to  various 
limitations  from  the  pressure  of  other  laws; 
and  thus  the  removal  of  a  trifling  superfluity 
will  not  be  justified  by  a  wise  economy  if  that 
loss  entails  a  dissonance,  or  prevents  a  climax, 
or  robs  the  expression  of  its  ease  and  variety. 
Economy  is  rejection  of  whatever  is  superflu- 
ous; it  is  not  Miserliness.  A  liberal  expendi- 
ture is  often  the  best  economy,  and  is  always  so 
when  dictated  by  a  generous  impulse,  not  by  a 
prodigal  carelessness  or  ostentatious  vanity. 
That  man  would  greatly  err  who  tried  to  make 
his  style  effective  by  stripping  it  of  all  redun- 
dancy and  ornament,  presenting  it  naked  before 
the  indifferent  public.  Perhaps  the  very  re- 
dundancy which  he  lops  away  might  have  aided 
the  reader  to  see  the  thought  more  clearly,  be- 
cause it  would  have  kept  the  thought  a  little 
longer  before  his  mind,  and  thus  prevented  him 
from  hurrying  on  to  the  next  while  this  one 
was  still  imperfectly  conceived. 


170  Success  in  Literature. 

As  a  general  rule,  redundancy  is  injurious; 
and  the  reason  of  the  rule  will  enable  us  to 
discriminate  when  redundancy  is  injurious  and 
when  beneficial.  It  is  injurious  when  it  ham- 
ypers  the  rapid  movement  of  the  reader's  mind, 
diverting  his  attention  to  some  collateral  detail. 
But  it  is  beneficial  when  its  retarding  influence 
is  such  as  only  to  detain  the  mind  longer  on  the 
thought,  and  thus  to  secure  the  fuller  effect 
of  the  thought.  For  rapid  reading  is  often 
imperfect  reading.  The  mind  is  satisfied 
with  a  glimpse  of  that  which  it  ought  to 
have  steadily  contemplated;  and  any  artifice 
by  which  the  thought  can  be  kept  long 
enough  before  the  mind,  may  indeed  be  a 
redundancy  as  regards  the  meaning,  but 
is  an  economy  of  power.  Thus  we  see 
that  the  phrase  or  the  clause  which  we 
might  be  tempted  to  lop  away  because  it 
threw  no  light  upon  the  proposition,  would  be 
retained  by  a  skilful  writer  because  it  added 
power.  You  may  know  the  character  of  a  re- 
jdundancy  by  this  one  test:  does  it  divert  the 
/  attention,  or  simply  retard  it  ?  The  former  is 
always  a  loss  of  power;  the  latter  is  sometimes 
a  gain  of  power.  The  art  of  the  writer  consists 
in  rejecting  all  redundancies  that  do  not  con- 
duce to  clearness.  The  shortest  sentences  are 


The  Laws  of  Style.  171 

not  necessarily  the  clearest.  Concision  gives 
energy,  but  it  also  adds  restraint.  The  labor  of 
expanding  a  terse  sentence  to  its  full  meaning 
is  often  greater  than  the  labor  of  picking  out 
the  meaning  from  a  diffuse  and  loitering  pas- 
sage. Tacitus  is  more  tiresome  than  Cicero. 

There  are  occasions  when  the  simplest  and 
fewest  words  surpass  in  effect  all  the  wealth  of 
rhetorical  amplification.  An  example  may  be 
seen  in  the  passage  which  has  been  a  favorite 
illustration  from  the  days  of  Longinus  to  our 
own.  "  God  said :  Let  there  be  light  !  and 
there  was  light."  This  is  a  conception  of  power 
so  calm  and  simple  that  it  needs  only  to  be 
presented  in  the  fewest  and  the  plainest  words, 
and  would  be  confused  or  weakened  by  any  sug- 
gestion of  accessories.  Let  us  amplify  the  ex- 
pression in  the  redundant  style  of  miscalled 
eloquent  writers :  "  God,  in  the  magnificent 
fulness  of  creative  energy,  exclaimed :  Let  there 
be  light!  and  lo!  the  agitating  fiat  imme- 
diately went  forth,  and  thus  in  one  indivisible 
moment  the  whole  universe  was  illumined." 
We  have  here  a  sentence  which  I  am  certain 
many  a  writer  would,  in  secret,  prefer  to  the 
masterly  plainness  of  Genesis.  It  is  not  a  sen- 
tence which  would  have  captivated  critics. 


172  Success  in  Literature. 

Although  this  sentence  from  Genesis  is  sub- 
lime in  its  simplicity,  we  are  not  to  conclude 
that  simple  sentences  are  uniformly  the  best, 
or  that  a  style  composed  of  propositions  briefly 
expressed  would  obey  a  wise  Economy.  The 
reader's  pleasure  must  not  be  forgotten;  arid 
he  cannot  be  pleased  by  a  style  which  always 
leaps  and  never  flows.  A  harsh,  abrupt,  and 
dislocated  manner  irritates  and  perplexes  him 
by  its  sudden  jerks.  It  is  easier  to  write  short 
sentences  than  to  read  them.  An  easy,  fluent 
and  harmonious  phrase  steals  unobtrusively 
upon  the  mind,  and  allows  the  thought  to  ex- 
pand quietly  like  an  opening  flower.  But  the 
very  suasiveness  of  harmonious  writing  needs 
to  be  varied  lest  it  become  a  drowsy  monotony ; 
and  the  sharp  short  sentences  which  are  intol- 
erable when  abundant,  when  used  sparingly  act 
like  a  trumpet-call  to  the  drooping  attention. 

II.      THE  LAW  OF  SIMPLICITY. 

The  first  obligation  of  Economy  is  that  of 
using  the  fewest  words  to  secure  the  fullest  ef- 
fect. It  rejects  whatever  is .  superfluous;  but 
the  question  of  superfluity  must,  as  I  showed 
just  now,  be  determined  in  each  individual  case 


The  Laws  of  Style.  173 

by  various  conditions  too  complex  and  numer- 
ous to  be  reduced  within  a  formula.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  Simplicity,  which  is  indeed  so 
intimately  allied  with  Economy  that  I  have  only 
given  it  a  separate  station  for  purposes  of  con- 
veniencd  The  psychological  basis  is  the  same 
for  both.  The  desire  for  simplicity  is  impa- 
tience at  superfluity,  and  the  impatience  arises 
from  a  sense  of  hindrance. 

The  first  obligation  of  Simplicity  is  that  of 
using  the  simplest  means  to  secure  the  fullest 
effect.  But  although  the  mind  instinctively  re- 
jects all  needless  complexity,  we  shall  greatly 
err  if  we  fail  to  recognise  the  fact,  that  what  the 
mind  recoils  from  is  not  the  complexity,  but  the 
needlessness.  When  two  men  are  set  to  the 
work  of  one,  there  is  a  waste  of  means;  when 
two  phrases  are  used  to  express  one  meaning 
twice,  there  is  a  waste  of  power ;  when  incidents 
are  multiplied  and  illustrations  crowded  with- 
out increase  of  illumination,  there  is  prodi- 
gality which  only  the  vulgar  can  mistake  for 
opulence.  Simplicity  is  a  relative  term.  If  in 
sketching  the  head  of  a  man  the  artist  wishes 
only  to  convey  the  general  characteristics  of 
that  head,  the  fewest  touches  show  the  greatest 
power,  selecting  as  they  do  only  those  details 


174  Success  in  Literature. 

which  carry  with  them  characteristic  signifi- 
cance. The  means  are  simple,  as  the  effect  is 
simple.  But  if,  besides  the  general  characteris- 
tics, he  wishes  to  convey  the  modelling  of  the 
forms,  the  play  of  light  and  shade,  the  textures, 
and  the  very  complex  effect  of  a  human  head,  he 
must  use  more  complex  means.  The  simplicity 
which  was  adequate  in  the  one  case  becomes 
totally  inadequate  in  the  other. 

Obvious  as  this  is,  it  has  not  been  sufficiently 
present  to  the  mind  of  critics  who  have  called 
for  plain,  familiar,  and  concrete  diction,  as  if 
that  alone  could  claim  to  be  simple ;  who  have 
demanded  a  style  unadorned  by  ,the  artifices  of 
involution,  cadence,  imagery,  and  epigram,  as 
if  Simplicity  were  incompatible  with  these; 
and  have  praised  meagreness,  mistaking  it  for 
Simplicity.  Saxon  words  are  words  which  in 
their  homeliness  have  deep-seated  power,  and  in 
some  places  they  are  the  simplest  because  the 
most  powerful  words  we  can  employ ;  but  their 
very  homeliness  excludes  them  from  certain 
places  where  their  very  power  of  suggestion  is 
a  disturbance  of  the  general  effect.  The  select- 
ive instinct  of  the  artist  tells  him  when  his 
language  should  be  homely,  and  when  it  should 


The  Laws  of  Style.  175 

be  more  elevated;  and  it  is  precisely  in  the  im- 
p£rceptible  blending  of  the  plain  with  the  or- 
nate that  a  great  writer  is  distinguished.  He 
uses  the  simplest  phrases  without  triviality,  and 
the  grandest  without  a  suggestion  of  grandilo- 
quence. 

Simplicity  of  Style  will  therefore  be  under- 
stood as  meaning  absence  of  needless  super- 
fluity: 

"Without  overflowing  full." 

Its  plainness  is  never  meagreness,  but  unity. 
Obedient  to  the  primary  impulse  of  adequate 
expression,  the  style  of  a  complex  subject  should 
be  complex;  of  a  technical  subject,  technical; 
of  an  abstract  subject,  abstract;  of  a  familiar 
subject,  familiar;  of  a  pictorial  subject,  pictur- 
esque. The  structure  of  the  "Antigone "  is 
simple ;  but  so  also  is  the  structure  of  "Othello," 
though  it  contains  many  more  elements;  the 
simplicity  of  both  lies  in  their  fulness  without 
superfluity. 

Whatever  is  outside  the  purpose,  or  the  feel- 
ing, of  a  scene,  a  speech,  a  sentence,  or  a  phrase, 
whatever  may  be  omitted  without  sacrifice  of  ef- 
fect is  a  sin  against  this  law.  I  do  not  say  that 
the  incident,  description,  or  dialogue,  which 
may  be  omitted  without  injury  to  the  unity  of 


176  Success  in  Literature. 

the  work,  is  necessarily  a  sin  against  art;  still 
less  that,  even  when  acknowledged  as  a  sin,  it 
may  not  sometimes  be  condoned  by  its  success. 
The  law  of  Simplicity  is  not  the  only  law  of  art ; 
and,  moreover,  audiences  are,  unhappily,  so 
little  accustomed  to  judge  works  as  wholes,  and 
so  ready  to  seize  upon  any  detail  which  pleases 
them,  no  matter  how  incongruously  the  detail 
may  be  placed,*  that  a  felicitous  fault  will  cap- 
tivate applause,  let  critics  shake  reproving 
heads  as  they  may.  Nevertheless  the  law  of 
Simplicity  remains  unshaken,  and  ought  only 
to  give  way  to  the  pressure  of  the  law  of  Va- 
riety. 

The  drama  offers  a  good  opportunity  for 
studying  the  operation  of  this  law,  because  the 
limitations  of  time  compel  the  dramatist  to  at- 
tend closely  to  what  is  and  what  is  not  needful 
for  his  purpose.  A  drama  must  compress  into 
two  or  three  hours  material  which  may  be  dif- 
fused through  three  volumes  of  a  novel  be- 
cause spectators  are  more  impatient  than  read- 
ers, and  more  unequivocally  resent  by  their 
signs  of  weariness  any  disregard  of  economy, 
which  in  the  novel  may  be  skipped.  The 

*  "  Was  hilft's,  wenn  ihr  ein  Ganzes  dargebracht! 

Das  Publicum  wird  es  euch  doch  aerpfllicken."— GOETHE. 


The  Laws  of  Style.  177 

dramatist  having  little  time  in  which  to  evolve 
his  story,  feels  that  every  scene  which  does  not 
forward  the  progress  of  the  action  or  intensify 
the  interest  in  the  characters  is  an  artistic  de- 
fect; though  in  itself  it  may  be  charmingly 
written,  and  may  excite  applause,  it  is  away 
from  his  immediate  purpose.  And  what  is  true 
of  purposeless  scenes  and  characters  which  di- 
vert the  current  of  progress,  is  equally  true,  in 
a  minor  degree,  of  speeches  and  sentences  which 
arrest  the  culminating  interest  by  calling  atten- 
tion away  to  other  objects.  It  is  an  error  which 
arises  from  a  deficient  earnestness  on  the  writ- 
er's part,  or  from  a  too  pliant  facility.  The 
dramatis  personae  wander  in  their  dialogue,  not 
swayed  by  the  fluctuations  of  feeling,  but  by 
the  author's  desire  to  show  his  wit  and  wisdom, 
or  else  by  his  want  of  power  to  control  the 
vagrant  suggestions  of  his  fancy.  The  desire 
for  display  and  the  inability  to  control  are 
weaknesses  that  lead  to  almost  every  transgres- 
sion of  Simplicity;  but  sometimes  the  trans- 
gressions are  made  in  more  or  less  conscious 
obedience  to  the  law  of  Variety,  although  the 
highest  reach  of  art  is  to  secure  variety  by  an 
opulent  simplicity. 


178  Success  in  Literature. 

The  novelist  is  not  under  the  same  limita- 
tions of  time,  nor  has  he  to  contend  against  the 
same  mental  impatience  on  the  part  of  his  pub- 
lic. He  may  therefore  linger  where  the  drama- 
tist must  hurry ;  he  may  digress,  and  gain  fresh 
impetus  from  the  digression,  where  the  drama- 
tist would  seriously  endanger  the  effect  of  his 
scene  by  retarding  its  evolution.  The  novelist 
with  a  prudent  prodigality  may  employ  descrip- 
tions, dialogues,  and  episodes,  which  would  be 
fatal  in  a  drama.  Characters  may  be  intro- 
duced and  dismissed  without  having  any  im- 
portant connection  with  the  plot;  it  is  enough 
if  they  serve  the  purpose  of  the  chapter  in  which 
they  appear.  Although  as  a  matter  of  fine  art, 
no  character  should  have  a  place  in  a  novel 
unless  it  form  an  integral  element  of  the  story, 
and  no  episode  should  be  introduced  unless  it 
reflects  some  strong  light  on  the  characters  or 
incidents,  this  is  a  critical  demand  which  only 
fine  artists  think  of  satisfying,  and  only  delicate 
tastes  appreciate.  For  the  mass  of  readers  it  is 
enough  if  they  are  amused;  and  indeed  all 
readers,  no  matter  how  critical  their  taste, 
would  rather  be  pleased  by  a  transgression  of 
the  law  than  wearied  by  prescription.  Delight 
condones  offence.  The  only  question  for  the 


The  Laws  of  Style.  179 

writer  is,  whether  the  offence  is  so  trivial  as  to 
be  submerged  in  the  delight.  And  he  will  do 
well  to  remember  that  the  greater  flexibility  be- 
longing to  the  novel  by  no  means  removes  the 
novel  from  the  laws  which  rule  the  drama.  The 
parts  of  a  novel  should  have  organic  relations. 
Push  the  licence  to  excess,  and  stitch  together 
a  volume  of  unrelated  chapters — a  patchwork 
of  descriptions,  dialogues,  and  incidents, — no 
one  will  call  that  a  novel ;  and  the  less  the  work 
has  of  this  unorganised  character  the  greater 
will  be  its  value,  not  only  in  the  eyes  of  critics, 
but  in  its  effect  on  the  emotions  of  the  reader. 
Simplicity  of  structure  means  organic  unity, 
whether  the  organism  be  simple  or  complex; 
and  hence  in  all  times  the  emphasis  which  crit- 
ics have  laid  upon  Simplicity,  though  they  have 
not  unfrequently  confounded  it  with  narrow- 
ness of  range.  In  like  manner,  as  we  said  just 
now,  when  treating  of  diction  they  have  over- 
looked the  fact  that  the  simplest  must  be  that 
which  best  expresses  the  thought.  Simplicity 
of  diction  is  integrity  of  speech;  that  which 
admits  of  least  equivocation,  that  which  by  the 
clearest  verbal  symbols  most  readily  calls  up  in 
the  reader's  mind  the  images  and  feelings  which 
the  writer  wishes  to  call  up.  Such  diction  may 


180  Success  in  Literature. 

be  concrete  or  abstract,  familiar  or  technical; 
its  simplicity  is  determined  by  the  nature  of 
the  thought.  We  shall  often  be  simpler  in  us- 
ing abstract  and  technical  terms  than  in  using 
concrete  and  familiar  terms  which  by  their  very 
concreteness  and  familiarity  call  up  images  and 
feelings  foreign  to  our  immediate  purpose.  If 
we  desire  the  attention  to  fall  upon  some  gen- 
eral idea  we  only  blur  its  outlines  by  using 
words  that  call  up  particulars.  Thus,  although 
it  may  be  needful  to  give  some  definite  direction 
to  the  reader's  thoughts  by  the  suggestion  of 
a  particular  fact,  we  must  be  careful  not  to 
arrest  his  attention  on  the  fact  itself,  still  less 
to  divert  it  by  calling  up  vivid  images  of  facts 
unrelated  to  our  present  purpose.  For  exam- 
ple, I  wish  to  fix  in  the  reader's  mind  a  concep- 
tion of  a  lonely  meditative  man  walking  on  the 
sea-shore,  and  I  fall  into  the  vicious  style  of  our 
day  which  is  lauded  as  word-painting,  and  write 
something  like  this: — 

"  The  fishermen  mending  their  storm-beaten 
boats  upon  the  shore  would  lay  down  the  ham- 
mer to  gaze  after  him  as  he  passed  abstractedly 
before  their  huts,  his  hair  streaming  in  the  salt- 
breeze,  his  feet  crushing  the  scattered  seaweed, 
his  eyes  dreamily  fixed  upon  the  purple  heights 
of  the  precipitous  crags." 


The  Laws  of  Style.  181 

Now  it  is  obvious  that  the  details  here  as- 
sembled are  mostly  foreign  to  my  purpose, 
which  has  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  fisher- 
men, storms,  boats,  sea- weeds,  or  purple  crags; 
and  by  calling  up  images  of  these  I  only  divert 
the  attention  from  my  thought.  Whereas,  if  it 
had  been  my  purpose  to  picture  the  scene  itself, 
or  the  man's  delight  in  it,  then  the  enumeration 
of  details  would  give  color  and  distinctness  to 
the  picture. 

The  art  of  a  great  writer  is  seen  in  the  per- 
fect fitness  of  his  expressions.  He  knows  how 
to  blend  vividness  with  vagueness,  knows  where 
images  are  needed,  and  where  by  their  vivacity 
they  would  be  obstacles  to  the  rapid  apprecia- 
tion of  his  thought.  The  value  of  concrete  il- 
lustration artfully  used  may  be  seen  illustrated 
in  a  passage  from  Macaulay's  invective  against 
Frederick  the  Great :  "  On  the  head  of  Freder- 
ic is  all  the  blood  which  was  shed  in  a  war 
which  raged  during  many  years  and  in  every 
quarter  of  the  globe —  the  blood  of  the  column 
of  Fontenoy,  the  blood  of  the  brave  mountain- 
eers who  were  slaughtered  at  Culloden.  The 
evils  produced  by  his  wickedness  were  felt  in 
lands  where  the  name  of  Prussia  was  unknown; 
and,  in  order  that  he  might  rob  a  neighbor 


182  Success  in  Literature. 

whom  he  had  promised  to  defend,  black  men 
fought  on  the  coast  of  Coromandel,  and  red 
men  scalped  each  other  by  the  Great  Lakes  of 
North  Amarica."  Disregarding  the  justice  or 
injustice  of  the  thought,  note  the  singular  force 
and  beauty  of  this  passage,  delightful  alike  to 
ear  and  mind;  and  observe  how  its  very  elabor- 
ateness has  the  effect  of  the  finest  simplicity, 
because  the  successive  pictures  are  constituents 
of  the  general  thought,  and  by  their  vividness 
render  the  conclusion  more  impressive.  Let 
us  suppose  him  to  have  written  with  the  vague 
generality  of  expression  much  patronised  by 
dignified  historians,  and  told  us  that  "  Freder- 
ick was  the  cause  of  great  European  conflicts 
extending  over  long  periods;  and  in  conse- 
quence of  his  political  aggression  hideous 
crimes  were  perpetrated  in  the  most  distant 
parts  of  the  globe."  This  absence  of  concrete 
images  would  not  have  been  simplicity,  inas- 
much as  the  labor  of  converting  the  general 
expressions  into  definite  meanings  would  thus 
have  been  thrown  upon  the  reader. 

Pictorial  illustration  has  its  dangers,  as  we 
daily  see  in  the  clumsy  imitators  of  Macaulay, 
who  have  not  the  fine  instinct  of  style,  but  obey 
the  vulgar  instinct  of  display,  and  imagine  they 


The  Laws  of  Style.  183 

can  produce  a  brilliant  effect  by  the  use  of 
strong  lights,  whereas  they  distract  the  atten- 
tion with  images  alien  to  the  general  impres- 
sion, just  as  crude  colorists  vex  the  eye  with 
importunate  splendors.  Nay,  even  good 
writers  sometimes  sacrifice  the  large  effect  of  a 
diffusive  light  to  the  small  effect  of  a  brilliant 
point.  This  is  a  defect  of  taste  frequently  no- 
ticeable in  two  very  good  writers,  DeQuincey 
and  Euskin,  whose  command  of  expression  is  so 
varied  that  it  tempts  them  into  fioritura  as  flexi- 
bility of  voice  tempts  singers  to  sin  against  sim- 
plicity. At  the  close  of  an  eloquent  passage  De 
Quincey  writes : — 

"  Gravitation,  that  works  without  holiday  for 
ever,  and  searches  every  corner  of  the  universe, 
what  intellect  can  follow  it  to  its  fountains? 
And  yet,  shyer  than  gravitation,  less  to  bo 
counted  than  the  fluxions  of  sun-dials,  stealth- 
ier  than  the  growth  of  a  forest,  are  the  foot- 
steps of  Christianity  amongst  the  political 
workings  of  man." 

The  association  of  holidays  and  shyness  with 
an  idea  so  abstract  as  that  of  gravitation,  the 
use  of  the  learned  word  fluxions  to  express  the 
movements  of  the  shadows  on  a  dial  and  the 
discordant  suggestion  of  stealthiness  applied  to 


184  Success  in  Literature. 

vegetable  growth  and  Christianity,  are  so  many 
offences  against  simplicity.  Let  the  passage  be 
contrasted  with  one  in  which  wealth  of  imagery 
is  in  accordance  with  the  thought  it  express- 
es:— 

"In  the  edifices  of  Man  there  should  be 
found  reverent  worship  and  following/ not  only 
of  the  spirit  which  rounds  the  pillars  of  the 
forest,  and  arches  the  vault  of  the  avenue — 
which  gives  veining  to  the  leaf,  and  polish  to 
the  shell,  and  grace  to  every  pulse  that  agitates 
animal  organisation, — but  of  that  also  which 
reproves  the  pillars  of  the  earth,  and  builds  up 
her  barren  precipices  into  the  coldness  of  the 
clouds,  and  lifts  her  shadowy  cones  of  mountain 
purple  into  the  pale  arch  of  the  sky;  for  these, 
and  other  glories  more  than  these,  refuse  not  to 
connect  themselves  in  his  thoughts,  with  the 
work  of  his  own  hand;  the  grey  cliff  loses  not 
its  nobleness  when  it  reminds  us  of  some  Cy- 
clopean waste  of  mural  stone;  the  pinnacles  of 
the  rocky  promontory  arrange  themselves,  unde- 
graded,  into  fantastic  semblances  of  fortress 
towers ;  and  even  the  awful  cone  of  the  far-off 
mountain  has  a  melancholy  mixed  with  that  of 
its  own  solitude,  which  is  cast  from  the  images 


The  Laws  of  Style.  185 

of  nameless  tumuli  on  white  sea-shores,  and  of 
the  heaps  of  reedy  clay,  into  which  chambered 
cities  melt  in  their  mortality."* 

I  shall  notice  but  two  points  in  this  singu- 
larly beautiful  passage.  The  one  is  the  ex- 
quisite instinct  of  Sequence  in  several  of  the 
phrases,  not  only  as  to  harmony,  but  as  to  the 
evolution  of  the  meaning,  especially  in  "  builds 
up  her  barren  precipices  into  the  coldness  of  the 
clouds,  and  lifts  her  shadowy  cones  of  mountain 
purple  into  the  pale  arch  of  the  sky."  The 
other  is  the  injurious  effect  of  three  words  in 
the  sentence,  "  for  these,  and  other  glories  more 
than  these,  refuse  not  to  connect  themselves  in 
his  thoughts."  Strike  out  the  words  printed  in 
italics,  and  you  not  only  improve  the  harmony, 
but  free  the  sentence  from  a  disturbing  use  of 
what  Euskin  has  named  the  "  pathetic  fallacy." 
There  are  times  in  which  Nature  may  be  as- 
sumed as  in  sympathy  with  our  moods ;  and  at 
such  times  the  pathetic  fallacy  is  a  source  of 
subtle  effect.  But  in  the  passage  just  quoted 
the  introduction  seems  to  me  a  mistake:  the 
simplicity  of  the  thought  is  disturbed  by  this 
hint  of  an  active  participation  of  Nature  in 
man's  feelings;  it  is  preserved  in  its  integrity 
by  the  omission  of  that  hint. 

*Ruskin. 


186  Success  in  Literature. 

These  illustrations  will  suffice  to  show  how 
the  law  we  are  considering  will  command  and 
forbid  the  use  of  concrete  expressions  and  vivid 
imagery  according  to  the  purpose  of  the  writer. 
A  fine  taste  guided  by  Sincerity  will  determine 
that  use.  Nothing  more  than  a  general  rule 
can  be  laid  down.  Eloquence,  as  I  said  before, 
cannot  spring  from  the  simple  desire  to  be  elo- 
quent; the  desire  usually  leads  to  grandilo- 
quence. But  Sincerity  will  save  us.  We  have 
but  to  remember  Montesquieu's  advice :  "  II 
faut  prendre  garde  aux  grandes  phrases  dans 
les  humbles  sujets;  elles  produisent  Peffet  d'une 
masque  a  barbe  blanche  sur  la  joue  d'un  en- 
fant." 

Here  another  warning  may  be  placed.  In 
our  anxiety  lest  we  err  on  the  side  of  grandilo- 
quence, we  may  perhaps  fall  into  the  opposite 
error  of  tameness.  Sincerity  will  save  us  here 
also.  Let  us  but  express  the  thought  and  feel- 
ing actually  in  our  minds,  then  our  very  grandil- 
oquence (if  that  is  our  weakness)  will  have 
a  certain  movement  and  vivacity  not  without  ef- 
fect, and  our  tameness  (if  we  are  tame)  will 
have  a  gentleness  not  without  its  charm. 

Finally,  let  us  banish  from  our  critical  super- 
stitions the  notion  that  chastity  of  composition, 
or  simplicity  of  Style,  is  in  any  respect  allied  to 


The  Laws  of  Style.  187 

timidity.  There  are  two  kinds  of  timidity,  or 
rather  it  has  two  different  origins,  both  of 
which  cripple  the  free  movement  of  thought. 
The  one  is  the  timidity  of  fastidiousness,  the 
other  of  placid  stupidity :  the  one  shrinks  from 
originality  lest  it  should  be  regarded  as  imperti- 
nent; the  other  lest,  being  new,  it  should  be 
wrong.  We  detect  the  one  in  the  sensitive  dis- 
creetness of  the  style.  We  detect  the  other  in 
the  complacency  of  its  platitudes  and  the  stereo- 
typed commonness  of  its  metaphors.  The 
writer  who  is  afraid  of  originality  feels  himself 
in  deep  water  when  he  launches  into  a  common- 
place. For  him  who  is  timid  because  weak, 
there  is  no  advice,  except  suggesting  the  pro- 
priety of  silence.  For  him  who  is  timid  be- 
cause fastidious,  there  is  this  advice :  get  rid  of 
the  superstition  about  chastity,  and  recognise 
the  truth  that  a  style  may  be  simple,  even  if  it 
move  amid  abstractions,  or  employ  few  Saxon 
words,  or  abound  in  concrete  images  and  novel 
turns  of  expression. 

III.      THE  LAW  OF  SEQUENCE. 

Much  that  might  be  included  under  this  head 
would  equally  well  find  its  place  under  that  of 
Economy  or  that  of  Climax.  Indeed  it  is  obvi- 
ous that  to  secure  perfect  Economy  there  must 


188  Success  in  Literature. 

be  that  sequence  of  the  words  which  will  present 
the  least  obstacle  to  the  unfolding  of  the 
thought,  and  that  Climax  is  only  attainable 
through  a  properly  graduated  sequence.  But 
there  is  another  element  we  have  to  take  into 
account,  and  that  is  the  rhythmical  effect  of 
Style.  Mr.  Herbert  Spencer  in  his  Essay  very 
clearly  states  the  law  of  Sequence,  but  I  infer 
that  he  would  include  it  entirely  under  the  law 
of  Economy ;  at  any  rate  he  treats  of  it  solely  in 
reference  to  intelligibility,  and  not  at  all  in  its 
scarcely  less  important  relation  to  harmony. 
"  We  have  a  priori  reasons,"  he  says,  "  for  be- 
lieving that  in  every  sentence  there  is  some  one 
order  of  words  more  effective  than  any  other; 
and  that  this  order  is  the  one  which  presents 
the  elements  of  the  proposition  in  the  succes- 
sion in  which  they  may  be  most  readily  put  to- 
gether. As  in  a  narrative,  the  events  should  be 
stated  in  such  sequence  that  the  mind  may  not 
have  to  go  backwards  and  forwards  in  order  to 
rightly  connect  them;  as  in  a  group  of  sen- 
tences, the  arrangement  should  be  such,  that 
each  of  them  may  be  understood  when  it  comes, 
without  waiting  for  subsequent  ones;  so  in 
every  sentence,  the  sequence  of  words  should  be 


The  Laws  of  Style.  189 

that  which  suggests  the  constituents  oi  the 
thought  in  the  order  most  convenient  for  the 
building  up  that  thought." 

But  Style  appeals  to  the  emotions  as  well  as 
to  the  intellect,  and  the  arrangement  of  words 
and  sentences  which  will  be  the  most  economic- 
al may  not  be  the  most  musical,  and  the  most 
musical  may  not  be  the  most  pleasurably  effect- 
ive. For  Climax  and  Variety  it  may  be  neces- 
sary to  sacrifice  something  of  rapid  intelligibil- 
ity; hence  involutions,  antitheses,  and  suspen- 
sions, which  disturb  the  most  orderly  arrange- 
ment, may  yet,  in  virtue  of  their  own  subtle 
influences,  be  counted  as  improvements  on  that 
arrangement. 

Tested  by  the  Intellect  and  the  Feelings,  the 
law  of  Sequence  is  seen  to  be  a  curious  com- 
pound of  the  two.  If  we  isolate  these  elements 
for  the  purposes  of  exposition,  we  shall  find  that 
the  principle  of  the  first  is  much  simpler  and 
more  easy  of  obedience  than  the  principle  of 
the  second.  It  may  be  thus  stated: — 

The  constituent  elements  of  the  conception 
expressed  in  the  sentence  and  the  paragraph 
should  be  arranged  in  strict  correspondence  with 
an  inductive  or  a  deductive  progression. 


190  Success  in  Literature. 

All  exposition,  like  all  research,  is  either  in- 
ductive or  deductive.  It  groups  particulars  so 
as  to  lead  up  to  a  general  conception  which  em- 
braces them  all,  but  which  could  not  be  fully 
understood  until  they  had  been  estimated;  or 
else  it  starts  from  some  general  conception,  al- 
ready familiar  to  the  mind,  and  as  it  moves 
along,  casts  its  light  upon  numerous  particu- 
lars, which  are  thus  shown  to  be  related  to  it, 
but  which  without  that  light  would  have  been 
overlooked. 

If  the  reader  will  meditate  on  that  brief 
statement  of  the  principle,  he  will,  I  think,  find 
it  explain  many  doubtful  points.  Let  me 
merely  notice  one,  namely,  the  dispute  as  to 
whether  the  direct  or  the  indirect  style  should 
be  preferred.  Some  writers  insist,  and  others 
practice  the  precept  without  insistence,  that  the 
proposition  should  be  stated  first,  and  all  its 
qualifications  as  well  as  its  evidences  be  made  to 
follow;  others  maintain  that  the  proposition 
should  be  made  to  grow  up  step  by  step  with  ail 
its  evidences  and  qualifications  in  their  due  or- 
der, and  the  conclusion  disclose  itself  as  crown- 
ing the  whole.  Are  not  both  methods  right  un- 
der different  circumstances?  If  my  object  is  to 
convince  you  of  a  general  truth,  or  to  impress 


The  Laws  of  Style.  191 

you  with  a  feeling,  which  you  are  not  already 
prepared  to  accept,  it  is  obvious  that  the  most 
effective  method  is  the  inductive,  which  leads 
your  mind  upon  a  culminating  wave  of  evidence 
or  emotion  to  the  very  point  I  aim  at.  But  the 
deductive  method  is  best  when  I  wish  to  direct 
the  light  of  familiar  truths  and  roused  emo- 
tions, upon  new  particulars,  or  upon  details  in 
unsuspected  relation  to  those  truths;  and  when 
1  wish  the  attention  to  be  absorbed  by  these 
particulars  which  are  of  interest  in  themselves, 
not  upon  the  general  truths  which  are  of  no 
present  interest  except  in  as  far  as  they  light 
up  these  details.  A  growing  thought  requires  \ 
the  inductive  exposition,  an  applied  thought 
the  deductive. 

This  principle,  which  is  of  very  wide  appli- 
cation, is  subject  to  two  important  qualifica- 
tions— one  pressed  on  it  by  the  necessities  of 
Climax  and  Variety,  the  other  by  the  feebleness 
of  memory,  which  cannot  keep  a  long  hold  of 
details  unless  their  significance  is  apprehended; 
so  that  a  paragraph  of  suspended  meaning 
should  never  be  long,  and  when  the  necessities 
of  the  case  bring  together  numerous  particulars 
in  evidence  of  the  conclusion,  they  should  be 
so  arranged  as  to  have  culminating  force:  one 


192  Success  in  Literature. 

clause  leading  up  to  another,  and  throwing  its 
impetus  into  it,  instead  of  being  linked  on  to 
another,  and  dragging  the  mind  down  with  its 
weight. 

It  is  surprising  how  few  men  understand  that 
Style  is  a  Fine  Art;  and  how  few  of  those  who 
are  fastidious  in  their  diction  give  much  care 
to  the  arrangement  of  their  sentences,  para- 
graphs, and  chapters — in  a  word,  to  Composi- 
tion. The  painter  distributes  his  masses  with 
a  view  to  general  effect;  so  does  the  musician: 
writers  seldom  do  so.  Nor  do  they  usually  ar- 
range the  members  of  their  sentences  in  that 
sequence  which  shall  secure  for  each  its  proper 
emphasis  and  its  determining  influence  on  the 
others — influence  reflected  back  and  influence 
projected  forward.  As  an  example  of  the 
charm  that  lies  in  unostentatious  antiphony, 
consider  this  passage  from  Euskin : — "  Origi- 
nality in  expression  does  not  depend  on  inven- 
tion of  new  words;  nor  originality  in  poetry  on 
invention  of  new  measures;  nor  in  painting  on 
invention  of  new  colors  or  new  modes  of  using 
them.  The  chords  of  music,  the  harmonies  of 
color,  the  general  principles  of  the  arrangement 
of  sculptural  masses,  have  been  determined  long 
ago,  and  in  all  probability  cannot  be  added  to 


The  Laws  of  Style.  193 

any  more  than  they  can  be  altered."  Men 
write  like  this  by  instinct;  and  I  by  no  means 
wish  to  suggest  that  writing  like  this  can  be 
produced  by  rule.  What  I  suggest  is,  that  in 
this,  as  in  every  other  Fine  Art,  instinct  does 
mostly  find  itself  in  accordance  with  rule;  and 
a  knowledge  of  rules  helps  to  direct  the  blind 
gropings  of  feeling,  and  to  correct  the  occa- 
sional mistakes  of  instinct.  If,  after  working 
his  way  through  a  long  and  involved  sentence  in 
which  the  meaning  is  rough  hewn,  the  writer 
were  to  try  its  effect  upon  ear  and  intellect,  he 
might  see  its  defects  and  re-shape  it  into  beauty 
and  clearness.  But  in  general  men  shirk  this 
labor,  partly  because  it  is  irksome,  and  partly 
because  they  have  no  distinct  conception  of  the 
rules  which  would  make  the  labor  light. 

The  law  of  Sequence,  we  have  seen,  rests 
upon  the  two  requisites  of  J31earneg&  and  Har- 
mony. Men  with  a  delicate  sense  of  rhytKnTwill 
instinctively  distribute  their  phrases  in  an 
order  that  falls  agreeably  on  the  ear,  without 
monotony,  and  without  an  echo  of  other  voices ; 
and  men  with  a  keen  sense  of  logical  relation 
will  instinctively  arrange  their  sentences  in  an 
order  that  best  unfolds  the  meaning.  The 
French  are  great  masters  of  the  law  of  Se- 
quence, and,  did  space  permit,  I  could  cite 


194  Success  in  Literature. 

many  excellent  examples.  One  brief  passage 
from  Eoyer  Collard  must  suffice: — "Les  fails 
que  ^observation  laisse  epars  et  muets  la  causal- 
ite  les  rassemble,  les  enchaine,  leur  prete  un 
langage.  Chaque  fait  revele  celui  qui  a  pre- 
cede, prophetise  celui  qui  va  suivre." 

The  ear  is  only  a  guide  to  the  harmony  of  a 
period,  and  often  tempts  us  into  the  feebleness 
of  expletives  or  approximative  expressions  for 
the  sake  of  a  cadence.  Yet,  on  the  other  hand, 
if  we  disregard  the  subtle  influences  of  harmo- 
nious arrangement,  our  thoughts  lose  much  of 
the  force  which  would  otherwise  result  from 
their  logical  subordination.  The  easy  evolu- 
tion of  thought  in  a  melodious  period,  quietly 
taking  up  on  its  way  a  variety  of  incidental  de- 
tails yet  never  lingering  long  enough  over  them 
to  divert  the  attention  or  to  suspend  the  con- 
tinuous crescendo  of  interest,  but  by  subtle  in- 
fluences of  proportion  allowing  each  clause  of 
the  sentence  its  separate  significance,  is  the 
product  of  a  natural  gift,  as  rare  as  the  gift  of 
music,  or  of  poetry.  But  until  men  come  to  un- 
derstand that  Style  is  an  art,  and  an  amaz- 
ingly difficult  art,  they  will  continue  with 
careless  presumption  to  tumble  out  their  sen- 
tences as  they  would  lilt  stones  from  a  cart, 


The  Laws  of  Style.  195 

trusting  very  much  to  accident  or  gravitation 
for  the  shapeliness  of  the  result.  I  will  write 
a  passage  which  may  serve  as  an  example  of 
what  I  mean,  although  the  defect  is  purposely 
kept  within  very  ordinary  limits — 

"  To  construct  a  sentence  with  many  loosely 
and  not  obviously  dependent  clauses,  each 
clause  containing  an  important  meaning  or  a 
concrete  image  the  vivacity  of  which,  like  a 
boulder  in  a  shallow  stream,  disturbs  the 
equable  current  of  thought, — and  in  such  a  case 
the  more  beautiful  the  image  the  greater  the 
obstacle,  so  that  the  laws  of  simplicity  and 
economy  are  violated  by  it, — while  each  clause 
really  requires  for  its  interpretation  a  proposi- 
tion that  is  however  kept  suspended  till  the 
close, — is  a  defect." 

The  weariness  produced  by  such  writing  as 
this  is  very  great,  and  yet  the  recasting  of  the 
passage  is  easy.  Thus : — 

"  It  is  a  defect  when  a  sentence  is  constructed 
with  many  loosely  and  not  obviously  dependent 
clauses,  each  of  which  requires  for  its  interpre- 
tation a  proposition  that  is  kept  suspended  till 
the  close;  and  this  defect  is  exaggerated  when 
each  clause  contains  an  important  meaning,  or 
a  concrete  image  which,  like  a  boulder  in  a 


196  Success  in  Literature. 

shallow  stream,  disturbs  the  equable  current  of 
thought:  the  more  beautiful  the  image,  the 
greater  its  violation  of  the  laws  of  simplicity 
and  economy." 

In  this  second  form  the  sentence  has  no  long 
suspension  of  the  main  idea,  no  diversions  of  the 
current.  The  proposition  is  stated  and  illustra- 
ted directly,  and  the  mind  of  the  reader  follows 
that  of  the  writer.  How  injurious  it  is  to  keep 
the  key  in  your  pocket  until  all  the  locks  in 
succession  have  been  displayed  may  be  seen  in 
such  a  sentence  as  this: — 

"  Phantoms  of  lost  power,  sudden  intuitions, 
and  shadowy  restorations  of  forgotten  feelings, 
sometimes  dim  and  perplexing,  sometimes  by 
bright  but  furtive  glimpses,  sometimes  by  a  full 
and  steady  revelation  overcharged  with  light — 
throw  us  back  in  a  moment  upon  scenes  and  re- 
membrances that  we  have  left  full  thirty  years 
behind  us." 

Had  De  Quincey  liberated  our  minds  from 
suspense  by  first  presenting  the  thought  which 
first  arose  in  his  own  mind, — namely,  that  we 
are  thrown  back  upon  scenes  and  remembrances 
by  phantoms  of  lost  power,  &c. — the  beauty  of 
his  language  in  its  pregnant  suggestiveness 
would  have  been  felt  at  once.  Instead  of  that, 


The  Laws  of  Style.  197 

he  makes  us  accompany  him  in  darkness,  and 
when  the  light  appears  we  have  to  travel  back- 
wards over  the  ground  again  to  see  what  we 
have  passed.  The  passage  continues : — 

"  In  solitude,  and  chiefly  in  the  solitudes  of 
nature,  and,  above  all,  amongst  the  great  and 
enduring  features  of  nature,  such  as  mountains, 
and  quiet  dells,  and  the  lawny  recesses  of  for- 
ests, and  the  silent  shores  of  lakes,  features 
with  which  (as  being  themselves  less  liable  to 
change)  our  feelings  have  a  more  abiding  as- 
sociation— under  these  circumstances  it  is,  that 
such  evanescent  hauntings  of  our  past  and  for- 
gotten selves  are  most  apt  to  startle  and  to  way- 
lay us." 

The  beauty  of  this  passage  seems  to  me 
marred  by  the  awkward  yet  necessary  interrup- 
tion, "under  these  circumstances  it  is,"  which 
would  have  been  avoided  by  opening  the  sen- 
tence with  "  such  evanescent  hauntings  of  our 
forgotten  selves  are  most  apt  to  startle  us  in 
solitudes,"  &c.  Compare  the  effect  of  directness 
in  the  following : — 

"  This  was  one,  and  the  most  common  shape 
of  extinguished  power  from  which  Coleridge 
fled  to  the  great  city.  But  sometimes  the  same 
decay  came  back  upon  his  heart  in  the  more 


198  Success  in  Literature. 

poignant  shape  of  intimations,  and  vanishing 
glimpses,  recovered  for  one  moment  from  the 
paradise  of  youth,  and  from  fields  of  joy  and 
power,  over  which  for  him,  too  certainly,  he 
felt  that  the  cloud  of  night  was  settling  for- 
ever/-' 

Obedience  to  the  law  of  Sequence  gives 
strength  by  giving  clearness  and  beauty  of 
rhythm ;  it  economises  force  and  creates  music. 
A  very  trifling  disregard  of  it  will  mar  an  effect. 
See  an  example  both  of  obedience  and  trifling 
disobedience  in  the  following  passage  from  Kus- 
kin: — 

"  People  speak  in  this  working  age,  when 
they  speak  from  their  hearts,  as  if  houses,  and 
lands,  and  food,  and  raiment  were  alone  useful, 
and  as  if  Sight,  Thought,  and  Admiration, 
were  all  profitless,  so  that  men  insolently  call 
themselves  Utilitarians,  who  would  turn,  if  they 
had  their  way,  themselves  and  their  race  into 
vegetables;  men  who  think,  as  far  as  such  can 
be  said  to  think,  that  the  meat  is  more  than  the 
life  and  the  raiment  than  the  body,  who  look 
to  the  earth  as  a  stable,  and  to  its  fruit  as 
fodder;  vinedressers  and  husbandmen,  who 
love  the  corn  they  grind,  and  the  grapes  they 
crush,  better  than  the  gardens  of  the  angels 
upon  the  slopes  of  Eden." 


The  Laws  of  Style.  199 

It  is  instructive  to  contrast  the  dislocated 
sentence,  "who  would  turn,  if  they  had  their 
way,  themselves  and  their  race,"  with  the  sen- 
tence which  succeeds  it,  "men  who  think,  as 
far  as  such  men  can  be  said  to  think,  that  the 
meat,"  &c.  In  the  latter  the  parenthetic  inter- 
ruption is  a  source  of  power:  it  dams  the  cur- 
rent to  increase  its  force;  in  the  former  the 
inversion  is  a  loss  of  power :  it  is  a  dissonance 
to  the  ear  and  a  diversion  of  the  thought. 

As  illustrations  of  Sequence  in  composition, 
two  passages  may  be  quoted  from  Macaulay 
which  display  the  power  of  pictorial  suggestions 
when,  instead  of  diverting  attention  from  the 
main  purpose,  they  are  arranged  with  pro- 
gressive and  culminating  effect. 

"  Such  or  nearly  such  was  the  change  which 
passed  on  the  Mogul  empire  during  the  forty 
years  which  followed  the  death  of  Aurungzebe. 
A  series  of  nominal  sovereigns,  sunk  in  indo- 
lence and  debauchery,  sauntered  away  life  in 
secluded  palaces,  chewing  bang,  fondling  con- 
cubines, and  listening  to  buffoons.  A  series  of 
ferocious  invaders  had  descended  through  the 
western  passes,  to  prey  on  the  defenceless 
wealth  of  Hindostan.  A  Persian  conqueror 
crossed  the  Indus,  marched  through  the  gates  of 


200  Success  in  Literature. 

Delhi,  and  bore  away  in  triumph  those  treas- 
ures of  which  the  magnificence  had  astounded 
Eoe  and  Bernier; — the  Peacock  Throne,  on 
which  the  richest  jewels  of  Golconda  had  been 
disposed  by  the  most  skilful  hands  of  Europe, 
and  the  inestimable  Mountain  of  Light,  which, 
after  many  strange  vicissitudes,  lately  shone  in 
the  bracelet  of  Kunjeet  Sing,  and  is  now  des- 
tined to  adorn  the  hideous  idol  of  Orissa.  The 
Afghan  soon  followed  to  complete  the  work  of 
devastation  which  the  Persian  had  begun.  The 
warlike  tribes  of  Eajpoots  threw  off  the  Mussul- 
man yoke.  A  band  of  mercenary  soldiers  occu- 
pied Eohilcund.  The  Seiks  ruled  on  the  Indus. 
The  Jauts  spread  terror  along  the  Jumna.  The 
high  lands  which  border  on  the  western  sea- 
coast  of  India  poured  forth  a  yet  more  formida- 
ble race; — a  race  which  was  long  the  terror  of 
every  native  power,  and  which  yielded  only, 
after  many  desperate  and  doubtful  struggles, 
to  the  fortune  and  genius  of  England.  It  was 
under  the  reign  of  Aurungzebe  that  this  wild 
clan  of  plunderers  first  descended  from  the 
mountains ;  and  soon  after  his  death,  every  cor- 
ner of  his  wide  empire  learned  to  tremble  at  the 
mighty  name  of  the  Mahrattas.  Many  fertile 
viceroyalties  were  entirely  subdued  by  them. 


The  Laws  of  Style.  201 

Their  dominions  stretched  across  the  peninsula 
from  sea  to  sea.  Their  captains  reigned  at 
Poonah,  at  Gualior,  in  Guzerat,  in  Berar,  and 
in  Tan j  ore." 

Such  prose  as  this  affects  us  like  poetry.  The 
pictures  and  suggestions  might  possibly  have 
been  gathered  together  by  any  other  historian; 
but  the  artful  succession,  the  perfect  sequence, 
could  only  have  been  found  by  a  fine  writer. 
I  pass  over  a  few  paragraphs,  and  pause  at  this 
second  example  of  a  sentence  simple  in  struc- 
ture, though  complex  in  its  elements,  fed  but  not 
overfed  with  material,  and  almost  perfect  in  its 
cadence  and  logical  connection.  "  Scarcely  any 
man,  however  sagacious,  would  have  thought  it 
possible,  that  a  trading  company,  separated 
from  India  by  fifteen  thousand  miles  of  sea, 
and  possessing  in  India  only  a  few  acres  for 
purposes  of  commerce,  would,  in  less  than  a 
hundred  years,  spread  its  empire  from  Cape 
Comorin  to  the  eternal  snows  of  the  Himalayas 
— would  compel  Mahratta  and  Mahommedaii 
to  forget  their  mutual  feuds  in  common  sub- 
jection— would  tame  down  even  those  wild  races 
which  had  resisted  the  most  powerful  of  the 
Moguls; — and  having  established  a  government 
far  stronger  than  any  ever  known  in  those  coun- 
tries, would  carry  its  victorious  arms  far  to  the 


202  Success  in  Literature. 

east  of  the  Burrampooter,  and  far  to  the  west 
of  the  Hydaspes — dictate  terms  of  peace  at  the 
gates  of  Ava,  and  seat  its  vassal  on  the  throne 
of  Candahar." 

Let  us  see  the  same  principle  exhibited  in  a 
passage  at  once  pictorial  and  argumentative. 
"We  know  more  certainly  every  day,"  says 
Buskin,  "  that  whatever  appears  to  us  harmful 
in  the  universe  has  some  beneficent  or  necessary 
operation ;  that  the  storm  which  destroys  a  har- 
vest brightens  the  sunbeams  for  harvests  yet  un- 
sown, and  that  the  volcano  which  buries  a  city 
preserves  a  thousand  from  destruction.  But  the 
evil  is  not  for  the  time  less  fearful,  because  we 
have  learned  it  to  be  necessary;  and  we  easily 
understand  the  timidity  or  the  tenderness  of  the 
spirit  which  would  withdraw  itself  from  the 
presence  of  destruction,  and  create  in  its  imagi- 
nation a  world  of  which  the  peace  should  be  un- 
broken, in  which  the  sky  should  not  darken  nor 
the  sea  rage,  in  which  the  leaf  should  not 
change  nor  the  blossom  wither.  That  man  is 
greater,  however,  who  contemplates  with  an 
equal  mind  the  alternations  of  terror  and  of 
beauty;  who,  not  rejoicing  less  beneath  the 
sunny  sky,  can  bear  also  to  watch  the  bars  of 
twilight  narrowing  on  the  horizon;  and,  not 


The  Laws  of  Style.  203 

less  sensible  to  the  blessings  of  the  peace  of  na- 
ture, can  rejoice  in  the  magnificence  of  the 
ordinances  by  which  that  peace  is  protected  and 
secured.  But  separated  from  both  by  an  im- 
measurable distance  would  be  the  man  who  de- 
lighted in  convulsion  and  disease  for  their  own 
sake ;  who  found  his  daily  food  in  the  disorder 
of  nature  mingled  with  the  suffering  of  human- 
ity ;  and  watched  joyfully  at  the  right  hand  of 
the  Angel  whose  appointed  work  is  to  destroy 
as  well  as  to  accuse,  while  the  corners  of  the 
House  of  feasting  were  struck  by  the  wind  from 
the  wilderness." 

I  will  now  cite  a  passage  from  Burke,  which 
will  seem  tame  after  the  pictorial  animation  of 
the  passages  from  Macaulay  and  Euskin;  but 
which,  because  it  is  simply  an  exposition  of 
opinions  addressed  to  the  understanding,  will 
excellently  illustrate  the  principle  I  am  enforc- 
ing. He  is  treating  of  the  dethronment  of 
kings.  "As  it  was  not  made  for  common 
abuses,  so  it  is  not  to  be  agitated  by  common 
minds.  The  speculative  line  of  demarcation, 
where  obedience  ought  to  end,  and  resistance 
must  begin,  is  faint,  obscure,  and  not  easily 
definable.  It  is  not  a  single  act,  or  a  single 
event,  which  determines  it.  Governments  must 


204  Success  in  Literature. 

be  abused  and  deranged  indeed,  before  it  can 
be  thought  of;  and  the  prospect  of  the  future 
must  be  as  bad  as  the  experience  of  the  past. 
When  things  are  in  that  lamentable  condition, 
the  nature  of  the  disease  is  to  indicate  the 
remedy  to  those  whom  nature  has  qualified  to 
administer  in  extremities  this  critical,  ambigu- 
ous, bitter  potion  to  a  distempered  state.  Times 
and  occasions,  and  provocations,  will  teach  their 
own  lessons.  The  wise  will  determine  from  the 
gravity  of  the  case;  the  irritable  from  sensi- 
bility to  oppression ;  the  high-minded  from  dis- 
dain and  indignation  at  abusive  power  in 
unworthy  hands ;  the  brave  and  bold  from  the 
love  of  honorable  danger  in  a  generous  cause: 
but,  with  or  without  right,  a  revolution  will  be 
the  very  last  resource  of  the  thinking  and  the 
good." 

As  a  final  example  I  will  cite  a  passage  from 
M.  Taine : — "  De  la  encore  cette  insolence  con- 
tre  les  inferieurs,  et  ce  m6pris  verse  d'etage  en 
etage  depuis  le  premier  jusqu'au  dernier.  Lors- 
que  dans  une  societe  la  loi  consacre  les  condi- 
tions inegales,  personne  n'est  exempt  d'insulte ; 
le  grand  seigneur,  outrage  par  le  roi,  outrage 
le  noble  qui  outrage  le  peuple;  la  nature  hu- 
maine  est  humilie  a  tous  les  etages,  et  la  societe 
n'est  plus  qu'un  commerce  d'affronts." 


The  Laws  of  Style.  205 

The  law  of  Sequence  by  no  means  prescribes 
that  we  should  invariably  state  the  proposition 
before  its  qualifications — the  thought  before  its 
illustrations;  it  merely  prescribes  that  we 
should  arrange  our  phrases  in  the  order  of  logic- 
al dependence  and  ryhthmical  cadence,  the  or- 
der best  suited  for  clearness  and  for  harmony. 
The  nature  of  the  thought  will  determine  the 
|  one,  our  sense  of  euphony  the  other. 

IV.      THK  LAW   OF   CLIMAX. 

We  need  not  pause  long  over  this ;  it  is  gen- 
erally understood.  The  condition  of  our  sensi- 
bilities is  such  that  to  produce  their  effect 
stimulants  must  be  progressive  in  intensity  and 
varied  in  kind.  On  this  condition  rest  the  laws 
of  Climax  and  Variety.  The  phrase  or  image 
which  in  one  position  will  have  a  mild  power  of 
occupying  the  thoughts,  or  stimulating  the  emo- 
tions, loses  this  power  if  made  to  succeed  one 
of  like  kind  but  more  agitating  influence,  and 
will  gain  an  accession  of  power  if  it  be  artfully 
placed  on  the  wave  of  a  climax.  We  laugh  at 

"  Then  came  Dalhousie,  that  great  God  of  War, 
Lieutenant-Colonel  to  the  Earl  of  Mar," 

because  of  the  relaxation  which  follows  the  sud- 
den tension  of  the  mind ;   but  if  we  remove  the 


206  Success  in  Literature. 

idea  of  the  colonelcy  from  this  position  of  anti- 
climax, the  same  couplet  becomes  energetic 
rather  than  ludicrous— 

11  Lieutenant-Colonel  to  the  Earl  of  Mar, 
Then  came  Dalhousie,  that  great  God  of  War." 

I  have  selected  this  strongly  marked  case,,  in- 
stead of  several  feeble  passages  which  might  be 
chosen  from  the  first  book  at  hand,  wherein 
carelessness  allows  the  sentences  to  close  with 
the  least  important  phrases,  and  the  style 
droops  under  frequent  anti-climax.  Let  me 
now  cite  a  passage  from  Macaulay  which  vividly 
illustrates  the  effect  of  Climax : — 

"JSTever,  perhaps,  was  the  change  which  the 
progress  of  civilisation  has  produced  in  the  art 
of  war  more  strikingly  illustrated  than  on  that 
day.  Ajax  beating  down  the  Trojan  leader 
with  a  rock  which  two  ordinary  men  could 
scarcely  lift,  Horatius  defending  the  bridge 
against  an  army,  Richard,  the  Lion-hearted, 
spurring  along  the  whole  Saracen  line  without 
finding  an  enemy  to  stand  his  assault,  Robert 
Bruce  crushing  with  one  blow  the  helmet  and 
head  of  Sir  Henry  Bohun  in  sight  of  the  whole 
array  of  England  and  Scotland,  such  are  the 
heroes  of  a  dark  age.  [Here  is  an  example 
of  suspended  meaning,  where  the  suspense  in- 
tensifies the  effect,  because  each  particular  is 


The  Laws  of  Style.  207 

vividly  apprehended  in  itself,  and  all  culminate 
in  the  conclusion;  they  do  not  complicate  the 
thought,  or  puzzle  us,  they  only  heighten  ex- 
pectation.] In  such  an  age  bodily  vigor  is  the 
most  indispensable  qualification  of  a  warrior. 
At  Landen  two  poor  sickly  beings,  who,  in  a 
rude  state  of  society,  would  have  been  regarded 
as  too  puny  to  bear  any  part  in  combats,  were 
the  souls  of  two  great  armies.  In  some  heathen 
countries  they  would  have  been  exposed  while 
infants.  In  Christendom  they  would,  six  hun- 
dred years  earlier,  have  been  sent  to  some  quiet 
cloister.  But  their  lot  had  fallen  on  a  time 
when  men  had  discovered  that  the  strength  of 
the  muscles  is  far  inferior  in  value  to  the 
strength  of  the  mind.  It  is  probable  that,  among 
the  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  soldiers 
who  were  marshalled  round  Neerwinden  under 
all  the  standards  of  Western  Europe,  the  two 
feeblest  in  body  were  the  hunch-backed  dwarf 
who  urged  forward  the  fiery  onset  of  France, 
and  the  asthmatic  skeleton  who  covered  the  slow 
retreat  of  England." 

The  effect  of  Climax  is  very  marked  in  the 
drama.  Every  speech,  every  scene,  every  act, 
should  have  its  progressive  sequence.  Nothing 


208  Success  in  Literature. 

can  be  more  injudicious  than  a  trivial  "phrase 
following  an  energetic  phrase,  a  feeble  thought 
succeeding  a  burst  of  passion  or  even  a  pas- 
sionate thought  succeeding  one  more  pas- 
sionate. Yet  this  error  is  frequently  committed. 
In  the  drama  all  laws  of  Style  are  more  impe- 
rious than  in  fiction  or  prose  of  any  kind,  be- 
cause the  art  is  more  intense.  But  Climax  is 
demanded  in  every  species  of  composition,  for 
it  springs  from  a  psychological  necessity.  It  is 
pressed  upon,  however,  by  the  law  of  Variety 
in  a  way  to  make  it  far  from  safe  to  be  too 
rigidly  followed.  It  easily  degenerates  into  mo- 
notony. 

V.      THE   LAW   OF   VARIETY. 


Some  one,  after  detailing  an  elaborate  recipe 
for  a  salad,  wound  up  the  enumeration  of  in- 
gredients and  quantities  with  the  advice  to 
"open  the  window  and  throw  it  all  away." 
This  advice  might  be  applied  to  the  foregoing 
enumeration  of  the  laws  of  Style,  unless  these 
were  supplemented  by  the  important  law  of 
Variety.  A  style  which  rigidly  interpreted  the 
precepts  of  economy,  simplicity,  sequence,  and 
climax,  which  rejected  all  superfluous  words 
and  redundant  ornaments,  adopted  the  easiest 


The  Laws  of  Style.  209 

and  most  logical  arrangement,  and  closed  every 
sentence  and  every  paragraph  with  a  climax, 
might  be  a  very  perfect  bit  of  mosaic,  but  would 
want  the  glow  and  movement  of  a  living  mind. 
Monotony  would  settle  on  it  like  a  paralysing 
frost.  A  series  of  sentences  in  which  every 
phrase  was  a  distinct  thought,  would  no  more 
serve  as  pabulum  for  the  mind,  than  portable 
soup  freed  from  all  the  fibrous  tissues  of  meat 
and  vegetable  would  serve  as  food  for  the  body. 
Animals  perish  from  hunger  in  the  presence  of 
pure  albumen;  and  minds  would  lapse  into 
idiocy  in  the  presence  of  unadulterated  thought. 
But  without  invoking  extreme  cases,  let  us 
simply  remember  the  psychological  fact  that  it 
is  as  easy  for  sentences  to  be  too  compact  as  for 
food  to  be  too  concentrated;  and  that  many  a 
happy  negligence,  which  to  microscopic  criti- 
cism may  appear  defective,  will  be  the  means  of 
giving  clearness  and  grace  to  a  style.  Of  course 
the  indolent  indulgence  in  this  laxity  robs  style 
of  all  grace  and  power.  But  monotony  in  the 
structure  of  sentences,  monotony  of  cadence, 
monotony  of  climax,  monotony  anywhere,  nec- 
essarily defeats  the  very  aim  and  end  of  style; 
it  calls  attention  to  the  manner;  it  blunts  the 
sensibilities ;  it  renders  excellencies  odious. 


210  Success  in  Literature. 

"  Beauty  deprived  of  its  proper  foils  and  ad- 
juncts ceases  to  be  enjoyed  as  beauty,  just  as 
light  deprived  of  all  shadow  ceases  to  be  enjoyed 
as  light.  A  white  canvas  cannot  produce  an 
effect  of  sunshine;  the  painter  must  darken  it 
in  some  places  before  he  can  make  it  look  lumi- 
nous in  others;  nor  can  an  uninterrupted  suc- 
cession of  beauty  produce  the  true  effect  of 
beauty;  it  must  be  foiled  by  inferiority  before 
its  own  power  can  be  developed.  Nature  has 
for  the  most  part  mingled  her  inferior  and 
nobler  elements  as  she  mingles  sunshine  with 
shade,  giving  due  use  and  influence  to  both,  and 
the  painter  who  chooses  to  remove  the  shadow, 
perishes  in  the  burning  desert  he  has  created. 
The  truly  high  and  beautiful  art  of  Angelico  is 
continually  refreshed  and  strengthened  by  his 
frank  portraiture  of  the  most  ordinary  features 
of  his  brother  monks,  and  of  the  recorded 
peculiarities  of  ungainly  sanctity;  but  the 
modern  German  and  Raphaelesque  schools 
lose  all  honor  and  nobleness  in  barber-like 
admiration  of  handsome  faces,  and  have, 
in  fact,  no  real  faith  except  in  straight 
noses  and  curled  hair.  Paul  Veronese  opposes 
the  dwarf  to  the  soldier,  and  the  negress 
to  the  queen;  Shakspeare  places  Caliban 


The  Laws  of  Style.  211 

beside  Miranda,  and  Autolycus  beside  Perdita; 
but  the  vulgar  idealist  withdraws  his  beauty 
to  the  safety  of  the  saloon,  and  his  inno- 
cence to  the  seclusion  of  the  cloister;  he  pre- 
tends that  he  does  this  in  delicacy  of  choice  and 
purity  of  sentiment,  while  in  truth  he  has 
neither  courage  to  front  the  monster,  nor  wit 
enough  to  furnish  the  knave."* 

And  how  is  Variety  to  be  secured?  The 
plan  is  simple,  but  like  many  other  simple 
plans,  is  not  without  difficulty.  It  is  for  the 
writer  to  obey  the  great  cardinal  principle  of 
Sincerity,  and  be  brave  enough  to  express  him- 
self in  his  own  way,  following  the  moods  of  his 
own  mind,  rather  than  endeavoring  to  catch  the 
accents  of  another,  or  to  adapt  himself  to  some 
standard  of  taste.  No  man  really  thinks  and 
feels  monotonously.  If  he  is  monotonous  in  his 
manner  of  setting  forth  his  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings, that  is  either  because  he  has  not  learned 
the  art  of  writing,  or  because  he  is  more  or  less 
consciously  imitating  the  manner  of  others. 
The  subtle  play  of  thought  will  give  movement 
and  life  to  his  style  if  he  do  not  clog  it  with 
critical  superstitions.  I  do  not  say  that  it  will 
give  him  grace  and  power;  I  do  not  say  that 

*Ruskin. 


212  Success  in  Literature. 

relying  on  perfect  sincerity  will  make  him  a 
fine  writer,  because  sincerity  will  not  give 
talent;  but  I  say  that  sincerity  will  give  him  all 
the  power  that  is  possible  to  him,  and  will  secure 
him  the  inestimable  excellence  of  Variety. 


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